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Edmond of Ryedale Vale.
BY
W. Alexander and Son,
Printers, Castlegate, York.
DEDICATION. TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE British Army has, with peculiar pride and satisfaction, long beheld, in the person of Your Royal Highness , a Prince forsaking the blandishments of a court and the alluring scenes of royal splendour, for the toils of office and the pursuits of warfare. It has witnessed with delight continued exertions in the cause of England's glory it has watched your progress as Commander in Chief; and with one accord it hails you as the firm friend of the British Soldier.
Connected with the Army as I am, Royal Duke, by being the Daughter of one Soldier, and the Wife of another, it cannot be matter of surprize that I should be anxious to obtain permission to dedicate
the humble efforts of my muse to the "Soldier's Friend,"--to a Soldier himself, who, while his noble qualities dignify his exalted rank in the Army, and endear him to his Countrymen, is also particularly distinguished for the encouragement he affords to those who labor in the literary vineyard.
The Poem for which the patronage of Your
Royal Highness
is solicited, has for title, "EDMOND OF
RYEDALE
; or, The Widowed Bride
." Sincerely
hoping that, when published, you may find among its
numerous defects, some passages not unworthy of perusal, and conscious that its tenor is strictly conformable with the purest morality, I shall venture to
submit it to Your Royal Highness's
inspection; and
beg to subscribe myself,
Your Royal Highness's
Most devoted Servant,
FRANCES ELIZABETH DUNLOP.
H. R. H. the Duke of York's
Library, 16th July, 1822
Madam,
I have the honor to acquaint you, that there will be no objection to you dedicating to His Royal Highness the Duke of York, the Poem which you are about to publish, and to remain,
Madam,
Your most Obedt. Servant,
W. H. DAKINS,
Chaplain and Secretary.
To
Mrs. F. E. Dunlop,
York.
THE Subject of the present Poem is founded on a circumstance in real life, which happened a few years ago in France. But the Author has taken the licence of removing the scene of action to Britain, and of placing the actors in a part of the country, with the beauties and scenery of which she is familiar.
Edmond of Ryedale Vale. CANTO THE FIRST.
Beautiful scene of the story.--View of a Gothic Hall.--Introduction of Bertram, its gorgeous Lord.-- His tyranny and bigotry.--Prejudices affect him as a thick cloud on the face of reason.--He has no affections but for his son Edmond.--Character of that hero.--His mind is of nature's choicest composition--He is a youth of fine feelings; capable of the purest friendship;' but endowed with those passions which are the most dangerous foes to man, because they reside within his own bosom.--He takes an evening walk.--A "fair vision" crosses his path.--He longs to shine in love and chivalry.--The "angel form of light" mocks his pursuit.--He returns to the lofty Castle of Bertram, wrapt in doubt and mystery.--The ambitious Bertram proposes to match his son with Edith, a rich heiress of his neighbourhood.--Edmond revolts.--The "form of light" occupies his thoughts.--The father must be obeyed.--Edmond must visit Holme, the seat of Edith. --Her character.--She possesses great personal beauty; her mind is stored with useful and ornamental learning; but neither friendship nor love as yet subsisted in her breast, because its movements were governed by the tyrannic sway of coquetry, caprice, and ambition.
CLOSE
to the bank of murmuring Rye,
A lofty Castle rear'd its head,
Whose towers had echoed many a sigh,
Drawn from the breast whence peace had fled:
For once, within the lofty Hall
Full many a warrior's shield had hung,
And hundreds waited on the call
Of their brave chief, when battle rung:
And many a prisoner in despair
Within those walls, had sigh'd in vain,
To roam at large, and taste the air,
To have his liberty again:
But civil broils had long been stay'd,
And those brave souls had found a home,
Where peaceful rest their cares repaid;
'Twas lowly, silent--'twas the tomb!
Yet still the proud domain arose
Uninjur'd by devouring time:
Long it surviv'd its friends and foes,
And 'bove decay it seem'd to climb:
Full many an acre stretching wide
Confess'd proud Ryedale's awful sway;
Full many a wave of Rye's pure tide
Own'd his dominion on its way:
And many a peasant swain was here
Who call'd fair Ryedale's master, lord,
And many an aged cotter near
Waited with deference on his word:
Yet Bertram, (so the lord was nam'd,)
Was not for truth or honor known:
His name had ne'er in arms been fam'd,
But wealth and titles were his own.
His was the dark and sordid soul,
Whose bosom knows no joy but one;
His will had never known control,
And for his wealth--his soul had gone:
Upon his stern and wrinkled brow
The frown of haughty pride was seen:
And from his eye well could he throw
Suspicion's doubtful glance, I ween.
His cheek was burnt,--for many a ray
Had scorch'd that proud and angry face;
His hair was white,--for many a day
Had closed, since he began his race:
Upon his lip the smile of scorn
And stern derision sneering bent;
And to his large and brawny form
Nature no trace of virtue lent.
His flashing eye had never wept
For other sorrows than his own,
And every joy he fain had kept,
To lavish on himself alone:
He reck'd not what the world might say,
He valued no man's praise or blame;
Virtue from him fled far away,
With honor, truth, and virtuous shame.
He would not do a gentle deed
Except self interest might be serv'd,
But for his own peculiar need
From evil he had often swerved.
The hapless peasant fears his look,
And cringing waits to hear his will,
Or hides him in some leafy nook
Lest Bertram mark him out for ill:
The maidens hasten to retire,
And leave th' unfinish'd dance and song,
Silent; no breath may dare respire
While Bertram chides the tim'rous throng.
Yet Bertram joy'd to see their fear,
It spoke his power, his dread control:
He cared not for the grateful tear,
The genuine tribute of the soul:
He knew not, cared not, to be loved;
Contented only to be fear'd:
He knew, and bore, their hate unmoved,
For early vice his heart had sear'd:
He had not learn'd, affection's tie
Had firmer bound them to their lord,
Had bade them joy to bleed, or die,
For one whose love their rights accord
He never smooth'd the brow of care,
Ne'er wiped the tear from misery's eye,
Had never earn'd one grateful prayer,
Nor e'er bade pain and anguish fly:
His heart had never known the joys
Which active virtue frequent knows,
When search of care the mind employs
That seeks--to give that care--repose.
Yet there was one whom Bertram loved;
If aught like love could truly dwell
Within a heart, which still had prov'd
Itself a dark and dreary cell:
Yes,--Bertram loved--and well he might,
Edmond, his only, darling son;
For Edmond was a gallant wight
As e'er the day broke brightly on;
Unlike his dark and surly sire,
His heart was gentle, brave, and kind,
And his high spirit would aspire,
To acts by gods--not men--design'd.
But would you know of Edmond's form?
No grace but did that form adorn;
If aught of Edmond's face or air?
'Twas beauty all--unrivall'd there:
But did I strive that face to paint
My colouring would be dead and faint;
For did I say like opening rose
When first its dewy leaves unclose,
I should but praise his blooming cheek;
Such simile would poorly speak:
Or should I say fair mom's first blush
Was pallid, to the manly flush
Which high soul'd honor gave his face,
I but one single charm should trace;
Nay, did I tread the fields, the grove,
Or o'er the world for simile rove
To portray Edmond truly,
I still should lack; for ne'er was man
So faultless form'd, since day began
'Tis known I mean in outward grace,
His mind, my story best will trace
To be a mind unruly.
That will the hero's heart unfold
Framed for high thought, tho' gentle, bold,
Candid and constant too:
You'll never find his heart dismay'd,
For what Lord Edmond once had said,
That Edmond dared to do.
The setting sun his last faint ray
Had shed, upon fair Ryedale vale,
And many a feather'd songster's lay
Was dying on the balmy gale:
The shepherd's call you well might hear
As carefully he penn'd his fold;
His dog's loud bark might reach your ear,
As o'er and o'er his flock he told:
The labourer jocund hastens home,
And whistles as he plods along,
Nor envies those who restless roam
In search of wealth,--to whom belong
No joy like the poor Cotter's song.
The Rye, whose clear, pellucid stream,
Flow'd quickly o'er its pebbly bed,
Had late reflected back the gleam
Which parting Phoebus there had shed,
Grey twilight now his mantle flung
Upon the beauteous murmuring wave,
And the large trees whose boughs o'erhung
The stream, a mournful softness gave:
No sound was heard--all here was still,
The pensive thoughtful mind to move;
Here you might muse, and range at will
Within this paradise of love.
"How sweet to range at evening's hour
"Where Rye's meandering torrents pour;
"To watch the changing, fleeting clouds,
"When twilight's soften'd light enshrouds
"The woods at close of day;
"To gaze upon the redden'd sky,
"To hear the breezes softly sigh,
"While dancing branches play."
So Edmond thought--and cross'd the hall,
While on his ears the waterfall
In distance broken--breaks.
And far young Edmond musing stray'd,
While fancy pleasing forms pourtray'd:
Far, from the castle to the west,
Then on the turf he sought to rest.
His thoughts were bent on chivalry,
He long'd to shine in rivalry,
With heroes, as of ancient times,
And break a lance in foreign climes.
"And shall I thus inglorious rest
"In peaceful ease for ever,
"Nor e'er by arms enrich my crest,
"Or leave this valley never?
"This lovely scene is all my own,
"And all the eye can reach is mine,
"Yet here I waste my days unknown,
"Condemn'd in slothful peace to pine."
More had he said, for o'er his soul
A thousand murmurs quickly roll:
But now in distance he espies
A female form:--"Whence did it rise?
"It is not earthly?--'tis too fair!
"It seems a form of radiant air."
Is it but imaginary?
A goddess visionary,
Descended to assist the youth
By pouring forth a ray of truth:
To train him for the battle's rage--
Or all his bosom's care assuage?
Onward it moves--approaches near,
While Edmond breathless lists to hear
What form so fair might say:
And low in rev'rence did he bend,
For ne'er had Edmond's vision kenn'd
So rare a star of day.
It stops--it gazes--and retires,
While Edmond wondering scarce respires
He cannot move,--a strange surprise
Enchains him still,--th' enchantress flies:
'Tis gone--the vision's flown.
Now springs he up with eager haste,
And glances quickly round and round:
"I saw a form,--'tis scarce effaced
"From my rapt view,--yet heard no sound--
"Great powers! what was't that seem'd so fair?
"Was it an angel form of light?
"This vale contains no flower so fair,
"So dazzling to the human sight.
"Did I but dream?--or see indeed
"That form which made my bosom glow?
"Or was it by power decreed
To lay my high wrought fancies low?
"Whate'er thou art--fair vision come,
"I will enraptur'd bow to thee;
"But oh! fair goddess, be not dumb,
"Oh speak! nor thus so hasty flee."
He spoke--he search'd--no form was nigh;
He listen'd--nothing met his ear
Save the chill breeze--whose hollow sigh
Was all the sound he now might hear.
Now, musing on the fairy scene,
With ling'ring steps he bent his way,
To where his stately home was seen
Wrapp'd in a cloud of sober grey.
In vain for Edmond viands smoke,
In vain the goblet's spicy store;
His looks a thoughtful mind bespoke,
He smiles and jests alas no more:
Soon from the jocund, jovial train
He hastens quickly far away:
And tortures o'er again his brain
By thinking on the lovely Fay.
At length worn out with fruitless thought
He throws him on his downy bed;
And every guardian power besought
To watch and wait around his head.
Here leave we Edmond to his dreams
Which still pursue the fleeting fair,
Who, deck'd by Morpheus, lovelier seems,
And more regardless of his prayer.
But where is he whose angry lour
Hath often damp'd the youth's gay hour?
Say where does Bertram waste the night?
Is Bertram plung'd in revels light?
Or does he list the sprightly jest?
Or slumb'ring lie by sleep opprest?
No--Bertram is not in the throng,
He hears nor jest, nor jocund song:
He paces up and down the plain,
His thoughts are bent on wealth and gain,
The darlings of his heart:
Yes, Bertram's breast a plan hath laid
Which soon to Edmond will be said,
For he mast bear a part.
And well did Bertram like the scheme,
And much he pleased himself, 'twould seem,
By dwelling on the promised joy,
Which spoke such grandeur for his boy:
And much he wish'd to wake his son,
To show him all he then thought on,
And frame him to his will:
But he will wait returning day;
For Edmond dare not say him nay,
Whate'er his mind may fill.
But little cared that haughty lord
What Edmond's generous bosom sway'd,
Content if he receiv'd his word,
And silent, reverently obey'd:
He look'd not for affection's smile,
And ne'er observ'd young Edmond's tear,
When Bertram check'd his boyish wile;
When love had mark'd the child's career.
The morning bright was breaking grey,
The stock-dove, perch'd upon the spray,
Sat cooing notes of love:
When Edmond first his eyes unclose,
And, lightly springing from repose,
He sallied forth to rove.
Bertram he meets, "And where, my son,
"Where is my Edmond ranging
"So soon, ere day is well begun,
"And twilight is but changing?"
"I go to catch the morning gale,
"To brace my nerves for feats of war:
"For soon some leagues from Ryedale Vale
"I fain would wander wide afar."
Stern Bertram smoothed his wrinkled brow,
And bade it wear a cheering look,
(For well the wily Lord knew how)
As Edmond's hand he kindly took.
"And dost thou, Edmond, then desire
"To leave thy own paternal dome?
"And canst thou quit thy aged sire?
"And, fondly restless, leave thy home?
"I who have waked the livelong night
"In planning schemes of joy for thee!
"And wilt thou, Edmond, from my sight,
"And Ryedale's turrets wish to flee?
"If wealth can charm thy youthful breast,
"Why that is thine--a plenteous store:
"If rank,--'tis thine,--then why not rest?
"For what can mortals wish for more?
"Or,--for I know the dreams of youth,
"You'd seek a Mistress fair and bright,
"I tell thee Edmond, in good sooth,
"Fair Edith is a gem of light:
"And well you know, her proud domain
"Upon our border frowning stands;
"There is no lord that might disdain
"To be the heir of Holme's rich lands:
" 'Twere well to join those lands to thine:
"I thought upon it yestere'en,
"And 'twere I think a good design;
"And you will find it so I ween:
"The Lady Edith you shall see,
"And you shall act a lover's part;
"And then no fear have I for thee;
"For faith! you'll win her woman's heart,
"And bear the prize away.
"But why this silence?--why so pale?
"By Heavens! he quivers like a bough:
"Why man art mad!--thy senses fail,
"Or what can make thee tremble so?
"I had prepar'd me for thy joy,--
"I thought my scheme would charm thy soul:
"But rouse thee--thou poor shaking boy,
"Nor thus thine eyes in silence roll."
A desperate effort Edmond made,
And swallow'd down the rising sigh:
Longer his father might have staid
Ere he had spoke,--no hope was nigh,
Anguish had rent his heart in twain
As thus his fate he silent heard;
Yet he can scarce define the pain,
Or answer Bertram by a word.
But Bertram waits to hear him speak,
And he must give his feeling vent:
Tho' paler grew his pallid cheek
When that stem eye on him was bent.
"O father! deem me not too bold,
"Or reckless of your kindly care:
"And while my wishes I unfold,
"O! give me not to dread despair:
"Riches I have, and titles too;
"And lands and wealth,--more than I need:
"Yet, all the lands I now can view
"I'd give, to do a valorous deed.
"Why must I here inglorious pine?
"Why waste my youth in slothful ease?
"While round, my sword I burn to twine
"The wreath of fame, it rusts in peace.
"And for the Lady Edith fair,
"I were not worthy of her smiles,
"Till at her feet a chaplet rare
"I lay, obtain'd in honor's toils."
"Peace, peace, fond boy--nor idly prate,"
Proud Bertram said, "I'll be obey'd:
"If yon would not provoke my hate,
"You straight will win, and wed the maid.
"I'll hear no more of honor's cause,
"Romantic, visionary stuff!
"What need'st thou care for honour's laws?
"I am thy monarch,--that's enough,
"Nay, hear me boy," (for Edmond's cheek
Was flush'd at honour's slighted name,
And he was just about to speak,
And boldly tell the thoughts that came)
"Dare not, young minion, on thy sire
"To cast one look of rage or scorn;
"Lest thou provoke my fiercest ire,
"And lands and wealth be from thee torn:
"Go to the Castle, graceless boy,
"There learn t' obey my just commands;
"Prepare to see this glittering toy,
"The heiress of Holme's fruitful lands;
"For, ere yon brightly glowing sun
"Doth half his daily circle run,
"You to the Hall shall quick repair,
"To see this wealthy, blooming fair.
"Hence from my sight,--begone I say,
"Ungrateful boy!--hence, while you may."
With languid step young Edmond went,
His mournful eye on earth he bent,
With folded arms he left the plain;
His motion spoke his proud disdain.
But Bertram was his parent still,
And duty bends him to his will;
Yet in his soul he scorn'd to be
The tool of Bertram's policy:
And well he knew his sordid heart
Had never play'd affection's part,
But to ensure some favorite scheme,
To realise some waking dream,
Or carry project dire.
And well he knew that Edith's land,
Her gold, her power, and large command,
Were all his sire's desire.
Virtue for Bertram had no charm,
And vice could ne'er his breast alarm,
If interest held the sway;
And were her gold and lands obtain'd,
If Bertram but her power had gain'd,
Then, on fair Edith's bridal hour
No matter if stem misery lour,
Or cloud his son's bright day.
This Edmond knew, but 'twas not this,
That chased his every thought of bliss:
Nor, though fair honor he revered
Was it to leave her paths, he fear'd:
For did he do his father's will
He might have follow'd honor still:
And Edith's form he ne'er had seen,
He could not hate it then, I ween.
And oft before he had been told
That she was beauteous to behold;
And many a barony lord, and squire,
To Edith's hand would fain aspire;
And many a lover, bending low,
Did for her favour humbly bow;
For far and near her beauty's fame
Had celebrated Edith's name:
And Edmond's was no surly heart,
Unframed to play the lover's part.
No; Edmond loved to see a face
Adorn'd with loveliness and grace,
And, like all other, generous men,
He well could love,--but Edmond then
Must choose his bride himself.
He thought upon the form he'd seen
So radiant bright at closing ev'n:
He thought upon the shadowy grove,
And fancied, if he e'er did love,
'Twould be the flying one:
For though he feared such vision rare
Could not be mortal, earthly fair,
But brilliant air alone;
Yet, while a chance remained that she
A beauteous earthly fair might be,
He felt he ne'er could love another,
Nor e'er his anxious wishes smother
To see her once again.
But he must do as fate design'd,
Yes, he must frame his ardent mind
To see the Lady Edith now;
Though inwardly he made a vow,
Never to wed but her he'd seen
When stretched upon fair Ryedale green:
No;--though despair and want should shroud
His prospect in affliction's cloud,
For her, her only, would he live;
And but to her, no love would give.
Determined, thus, he homeward sped
To deck himself for meeting dread,
But he feels easy, since his mind
Has formed his vow,--and he's resign'd.
Now hark! the harshly sounding bell
Fierce Bertram's hasty summons tell:
Lord Edmond hastes with dauntless stride,
And now he's by his father's side:
Sternly proud Bertram views him o'er
As though he'd fain his heart explore;
And keen his haughty eyes do roll,
As if to read his inmost soul:
Nought could he see but duty now,
As Edmond, reverent, bending low,
With cheerful face attending stands,
And duteous asks his site's commands.
"I'm glad to find" stern Bertram said,
"That thou art fittingly arrayed;
"High rank should e'er be costly drest,
"And grandeur pleases women best:
"But most I'm pleas'd to find you know
"The duty which to me you owe:
"Reflection hath done good, I see,
"And now, I hope you think like me.
"You'll own that honor's but a toy--
"And that no earthly good, or joy,
"Can equal gold and fruitful laud:
"Get that--all else you may command."
I need not say that Edmond's heart
In his sire's feeling took no part;
Nor need I tell what servants went
To Holme, to speak their lord's intent;
What vassals drest in livery gay
Attended Bertram on the way,
What shew of wealth, why need I say?
Nor need I tell how Edith fair
Braided anew her shining hair;
Since she was youthful, proud, and high,
And thought another triumph nigh,
We well may think she wished to see
Fair Ryedale's Edmond bow the knee:
For, though ne'er seen, she'd heard his name,
And heard it praised by sounding fame:
And well it pleased the haughty maid
When Bertram's coming now was said.
No rivals Edith's breast alarm,
And she was well resolved to charm:
She knows her loveliness and skill,
And thinks her smile can charm, at will;--
For I have said that many a heart
Had joy'd if she a smile impart;
And many a spirit mournful bent
If to her brow a frown was lent;
And well the beauteous fair had known
That many lived for her alone:
But, while her eye on all could rove,
Her heart had never known to love;
Like one immortal firm she stood,
And smiled on those her charms subdued.
Not long will Edith now remain
Insensible of others' pain:
Edith will stand unmoved no more,
For haughty Edith's freedom's o'er.
End of Canto the First.
Edmond of Ryedale Vale. CANTO THE SECOND.
Edmond's visit to Holme.--Edith's haughty freedom gone.--EDMOND 's manly spirit is moved.-- A splendid repast.--A Harper's song.--Edith sings.-- She fans, with the refreshing wings of genius, the timid heart of Edmond.--She strives to make him bend beneath the beam of her mind.--Departure from Holme. Evening scene.--Bertram's alarm.--Signs of his guilt. --He flies a voice which cries "Revenge! Revenge!" Motives of his horror and remorse.--"Thereby hangs a Tale."--It is not as yet surmised by Edmond.-- Solitary night scene.--Sweet music swells the breeze. A seraph's song.--It tells the story of poor Elinor.-- In the sweet chauntresse stands revealed the "Fair Vision" of Canto First.--Edmond invokes the vision. --It flies.--He pursues.--He becomes a victim to disappointment and despair.--Determines to resolve the mystery.--He suffers one sole ideal prospect of felicity to engross his imagination.--Reason is no longer paramount.--He abandons himself to the anarchy of the passions.
THE
sun had reach'd his greatest height,
When Holme's proud towers broke on the sight
Of Bertram and his train;
Silent they pass'd pure Holbeck's tide,
Which Ryedale's lands from Holme divide,
And cross'd the far stretched plain.
The portal bell was loudly rung,
The reins on coursers' necks were flung,
And Bertram's train descend;
And now, with courteous greeting, all
Were ushered through the spacious hall,
While some with Bertram wend;
With proudly solemn step they go,
While thronging servants, bending low,
The way to Lady Edith show,
With duteous, deep respect.
Amid her maidens stood the fair,
Magnificent by taste array'd,
And few there were, that might compare
With this most peerless, beauteous maid:
Her costly dress of broider'd gold
Was clasp'd with many a diamond bright;
Her flowing veil, whose careless fold
Was form'd by art to cheat the sight.
Upon her neck, her arms, and head,
A thousand glittering jewels shone;
But these, though they a lustre shed,
Improved not her, who'd charm alone.
With winning smile and matchless grace,
Advancing 'neath the massive dome,
With mantling blush upon her face,
She welcomes Ryedale's lord to Holme:
On Edmond next a look she cast,
Of welcome and indifference meant:
But with that look her coldness past,
Surprise a deeper flush hath lent.
Faltering she spoke the greetings due
From Holme's proud heiress to her guests,
With downcast eye, and varying hue,
Which well her pleased surprise attests.
Stern Bertram mark'd the Lady well
And read the feelings of her soul,
For well could wily Bertram tell
That Edmond's form her heart had stole.
And spoke he thus, "Lady, thy name
"Hath often reach'd our fruitful vale,
"And (for we long have heard thy fame,
"Yet scarce believ'd the wonderous tale
"Which we of Holme's enchantress heard)
"My son and I, loth to believe
"Fame's sometimes vainly flattering word,
"Have sought, and find she doth deceive;
For by the Holy Rood I swear,
"She hath belied thee, lovely maid!
"She hath not spoke thee half so fair
"As nature hath thy charms array'd."
"Sooth, good lord Bertram," she replied,
"Fame hath indeed most foully lied,
"For sure it spoke lord Edmond's sire
"As loth a woman to admire.
"Ill may the tongue of fame befal,
"It spoke his hatred of us all:
"But now lord Bertram that I know,
"I find how false reports may go:
"For him I almost feared, instead,
"A courtier I have found, indeed
"Skill'd in our praise, I see full well,
"And versed a flattering tale to tell."
"Nay, lady Edith, thou dost know
"The thousand charms that round thee flow;
"But 'tis not mine thy praise to speak,
"Or tell her charms whom hundreds seek;
"But for my son, fair Ryedale's heir,--
"Sweet lady! bid him not despair.
"Edmond is young, and therefore may
"Attempt to win a lady gay;
"And, lady Edith! see, he stands
"Waiting to hear thy dread commands;
"Then deign one smile of hope to give,
"And, lady! bid my Edmond live."
Well pleased the maiden Bertram heard,
Her ear had drunk each welcome word.
"I thank lord Bertram" then she said,
"For his high offer to a maid:
"Lord Bertram may believe my pride
"Well pleased,--yet cannot I decide.
"Lord Edmond, till this day unknown,
"Cannot already fear my frown:
"For hope I may not give him cause,
"My lord, I claim a right to pause--
"But" (here she turn'd with artful wile
To Edmond with a syren smile,
Which thrill'd thro' Edmond's youthful breast,
But did not injure Edmond's rest;)
"But, if lord Edmond be sincere,
"He will not have much cause to fear,
"I'll hear himself unfold his tale,
"Then if he can my pity move,
"He sure may ripen that to love,
"Nor long his fate bewail."
With wily ease this did she say,
Half earnest, half in lively jest;
While many a charm was seen to play,
Around her form by graces drest.
No wonder then that Edmond's look
A cast of admiration took,
No wonder that he thought he ne'er,
But once--beheld a form so fair;
And that had he that Fay ne'er seen,
Edmond had now too happy been.
But, though his lips her fingers prest,
His heart was still by care opprest.
But now the banquet is begun,
And wassail mirth the arches rung.
Upon a throne fair Edith view,
Prepared the honors well to do;
A hostess fair with graceful ease,
And sure--'cause wishful--all to please.
Around her sat full many a knight
Who gazed upon her with delight,
And many a lovely lady there
Were seen,--but none like Edith fair.
And many a servitor and maid
Were there--to do what Edith said.
And nought but joy and mirth was heard;
There was not one resentful word,
Or wrathful look of ire.
Stern Bertram's haughty soul was moved,
As round the board his eyes had roved,
To taste of happiness;
Ev'n Edmond shared the general joy,
Not now do fears his breast annoy,
To make his pleasures less:
The circling wine doth quickly pass,
And every brimming, cheering glass,
Effaces some sad thought.
Edith--her feelings need I tell,
How that her youthful heart did swell,
With love and kindness fraught?
But now the harper tunes the strings,
And now a soften'd lay he sings,
While all in silence hear.
THE HARPER'S SONG.
High raise thy notes, thou sounding harp,
And vibrate 'neath thy master's hand;
Whose palsied powers old age doth warp,
As thus he wakes thy accents bland.
Yet still, my harp, wake, wake once more,
And sweetly give thy softest lays:
Loud, loud resound, from shore to shore,
The matchless lady Edith's praise.
Nor stay thou here, but let each knight
And lady's name of Edith's house,
The brave, the fair, the good, the bright
Partake thy notes in this carouse.
Nor even then thy music hold,
Till all around this plenteous board
Have heard thy tones their praise unfold;
Then be my harp to sleep restored.
But bootless would thy loudest swell
Attempt to run their merits o'er,
Where so much is;--thou canst but tell
What all doth know;--thou canst no more.
Then breathe again fair Edith's name,
Whom every tongue delights to praise:
The well beloved child of fame,
For her thy loudest tones I'll raise.
A wand'ring, outcast harper I,
Condemn'd far o'er the world to stray;
I travell'd long with many a sigh,
With tottering steps the livelong day.
And dreary was the harper's lot
Forced from his own dear land to roam,
From Scotland, and his peaceful cot,
Till seen by Edith fair of Holme.
She saw the sinking, fainting bard
Enter her wide thrown open gate:
She heard his woes,--and gave reward,
In pity, to the harper's fate.
Then, with smile benign as bright,
She bid the care-worn harper rest,
Within her hall to chase each night
The drowsy hours by harp or jest.
No longer now an outcast, thrown
Upon the world, borne down by age;
I fear no supercilious frown,
Nor e'er does want my fears engage.
Then raise, high raise thy notes again,
Till loud it echoes through the dome:
Or let thy grateful, softest strain,
Tremble for Edith fair of Holme.
The Harper bows; the strain is o'er;
And many praise the Harper's skill;
And great the bounty which they pour
On him, who bends him lower still;
Fair Edith smiled to see her bard
Such lavish, flowing praise obtain,
And sweetly spoke,--"Such great reward
"I would, but ah! I cannot claim:
"Yet will I try one simple lay,
"And strive to please my noble friends."
Then 'mong the strings her fingers play,
And o'er the harp she graceful bends.
Now, Edmond, guard thy heart with care;
For dangerous is thy envied place:
So near to Edith, O! beware--
That beaming smile, that beauteous face.
O Edmond! think upon thy vow,
To her thou saw'st in Ryedale grove;
Remember that fair goddess now,
And praise the lay, but do not love.
Silence is reigning over all,
You well might hear a needle fall:
The cadence rises,--it ascends,
While every listening ear attends,
To Lady Edith's tuneful song.
With downcast eye she first begins,
Her fingers tremble on the strings;
But now she smiles, and gayly sings,
And bends her look on Edmond long.
EDITH'S SONG.
Young Alfred the knight
Was as gallant a wight,
As ever strode courser in chivalry:
E'er wielded the glaive
His country to save,
Or to his liege lord ever bow'd the knee.
And Bertha the fair
Had beauty as rare,
As lady could boast from the east to west;
And her father's power,
With her own good dower,
Made many a knight list her proud behest.
But bootless they strove
For the lady's love;
Young Alfred alone was the lady's care:
His heart was so free,
And so courteous was he,
No knight with Sir Alfred could bear compare.
The green Isle gave birth,
To this knight of worth;
And he came, with a goodly martial train,
With a large command,
To a foreign land,
The land of fair Bertha, poor injured Spain.
But Bertha's old sire
Bid Alfred retire,
When under her casement so sweetly he sung:
And swore with a frown,
He'd Bertha disown,
If she minded the lips where heresy hung.
With a sigh and smile,
Her sire to beguile,
She counted her beads, as she silently heard:
He thought she obeyed,
Of wrath was afraid,
And left her to muse on his threatening word.
But love and good wit
An expedient have hit,
Which little her father could think upon
For he thought the grate,
As strong as his fate,
Nor dreamt of the bars wrench'd out one by one.
So sound did he sleep,
Poor guard did he keep,
O'er Bertha the loved, at the midnight hour.
The ladder of ropes,
Repaid Alfred's hopes,
As it bore the maid from her father's bower.
And quickly they fled,
Ere sunbeam was shed,
On the dark grey hills of the Spanish shore;
A Priest joined their hands,
In conjugal bands,
While dash'd their light ship through the ocean's roar.
Then happy the knight
That woos maiden bright,
With a constant heart and fond courtesy;
He may hope the while,
For the maid will smile,
And reward her knight for his constancy.
But now her voice no more is heard,
The rising cadence louder swells,
While silent all,--no whispering word
Enraptured admiration tells:
Now sweeter, softer is the sound,
No longer loud, no longer gay,
Th' enchantress smiles on all around,
While, murmuring low, it dies away.
Then loud the echoing plaudits rang,
And loudly cheered the murmurous throng:
Some told how well fair Edith sang,
Some flattering praised her simple song:
And many an eye was turned to gaze,
When Edith graceful moved to all;
And many a word of whisper'd praise
From knightly lips that time did fall.
E'en Edmond joined his well pleased sire
In praising Lady Edith's voice;
And well might he that voice admire,
Which made so many hearts rejoice.
Hard, hard must be that flinty heart
Which made feel sweet music's charms;
To which her tones no joys impart,
Nor e'er his breast of rage disarms:
And when to music's power is joined
Sweet beauty's grace, and winning smiles,
The heart was ne'er by Heaven designed
That can resist their magic wiles.
No wonder that Lord Edmond then
Should press fair Edith's offered hand,
Nor that his lips should speak again
The praise the Syren's charms command.
But see the thronging guests retire;
And now Lord Edmond and his sire
The last prepare to go.
"Fair Lady, by your leave I'll say,
"Edmond and I have spent this day
"So lightly in your cheerful home,
" 'Twill make us frequent hither roam;
"If we may hope fair Edith will
"Extend her kindly welcome still."
Thus Spoke Lord Bertram to the maid,
And thus his courteous parting paid.
"Lord Bertram may be sure to find
"Holme's mistress e'er a neighbour kind.
"As for Lord Edmond, Ryedale's heir,
"He'll take his chance, like others here;
"I must not kindness promise now--
" 'Twould make him vain, my lord, I trow."
She said, and with a gentle wave
Her flowing veil she backwards threw,
Then smiling each a hand she gave,
Which then they kissed in homage due.
This said, this done, they onwards past,
And left fair Edith's cheerful hall,
'Twas long since day had shed her last
Faint ray,--and night o'ershadowed all.
With hastening step they took their way
Tow'rds Ryedale, where the moon beams play:
But why does Bertram's frowning brow
Speak some dark, direful feeling now?
Why does he urge his steed so fast
As Holbeck's running stream they past?
Why do his eye-balls glare affright,
When something cross'd his courser's sight,
And made him plunge and rear?
Or canst thou tell what voice he heard,
Murmuring a low and dreadful word,
"Revenge--revenge--is near?"
"Ah! 'twas her voice!" he frantic cries,
And o'er the rising hill he flies;
While quick Lord Edmond and his train
Their coursers spurr'd the vale to gain,
And catch their flying lord.
They found him near the Castle gate;
Upon his horse benumb'd he sate,
Nor uttered ev'n a word:
His eyes were fixed in horror still,
His brow, like marble cold and chill,
Dropping a deathly dew.
Lord Edmond's voice the silence broke,
He cheering to his father spoke,
What duteous kindness drew.
He cast a look on Edmond's face
Of horror and despair,
For there the image he could trace
Of her who caused his care;
Then, wrapping round his mantle close,
"Go now, my son, seek thy repose;
"I too will seek my nightly rest:
"And do not, Edmond, look distrest,
"For I am well again."
But would'st thou know why Bertram shook,
When late he crossed the murmuring brook?
Why Bertram thus so frantic grew?
Whose was the voice which then he knew?
Or why remorse his breast did swell?
The shepherds oft the tale will tell.
They say--that Bertram's lady fair,
Mother of Edmond, Ryedale's heir--
Was beauteous, wise, and rich, as good;
Of high born rank, and princely blood;
Once dear to his stem vengeful breast,
Though she proud Bertram did detest:
That when some warring months were past,
A chilling look on her he cast,
Of coldness and disdain:
And jealous of her tranquil mind,
To bear its misery resigned,
And greatly suffer pain.
The villain framed som
story dire,
Which hate and horror might inspire,
Tow'rds that fair injured one:
And when the story was believed,
And all her friends the tale received,
Then did he choose a silent hour,
To lead her from her secret bower;
And shepherds say, the lady died
By his foul hand, near Holbeck tide:
That, fearing vengeance in each sound,
He placed her corse deep under ground;
And, oft as o'er her lonely bed,
Pale Cynthia's soften'd gleam is shed,
They say that lady, clad in white,
Doth wander by her gentle light.
(I will not vouch the tale I tell,
But this I know--for truth, full well;
That in these latter days was found,
A human corse, dug from that ground;
A skeleton I should have said,
For it had long in earth been laid.)
Then well might Bertram shake for fear,
To hear that voice speak vengeance near;
Well might his eyes in frenzy glare,
Well his stem bosom feel despair,
When heard so dread a threat.
All's silent save the neighbouring flood,
Whose rippling murmurs on the gale,
While Edmond at the casement stood,
And gazed upon the moon light vale.
His eyes roll vacantly o'er all,
Unmark'd is any object near;
For his wrapt mind doth now recall
The Holbeck scene,--his father's fear.
But long might Edmond musing dwell
Upon that scene of wild affright,
Ere he the secret could reveal;
His duteous love and awe to blight.
'Twas well that Edmond's virtuous breast
Could ne'er surmise the dreadful tale:
Such tale had banish'd Edmond's rest,
And made him fondly vengeance hail.
But his pure heart was spared the blow;
His mother's woes he ne'er did hear;
A father's guilt he ne'er did know;
The tale was guarded from his ear,
But hark! sweet music swells the breeze,
The sounds ascend from yonder trees
Such music as the angels sing,
When loud their heavenly praises ring:
See! it recalls Lord Edmond's thought,
As high it swells with feeling fraught;
An anxious look he casts around,
While listening to the soothing sound.
Lost in surprise, now see him lean,
And with his eyes explore the green:
Hark!--low it dies upon the gale,
Now swells, and fills the far stretch'd dale;
Wonder is marked on Edmond's face;
He cannot speak, or quit the place:
But hark! a voice,--in accents sweet,
Those heavenly sounds again repeat.
SONG.
The thrush and the blackbird full sweetly are singing,
The notes of the stock-dove sound mournfully sweet;
Harmonious each air wafts the chorus that's ringing,
On an ear that once loved that sweet chorus to meet.
But dead are the powers that it once did awaken,
And chill'd is the heart that once flutter'd so gay;
For death to his cold clammy bosom hath taken,
The friends which for her chased pale sorrow away.
Poor Elinor once, with an eye brightly beaming,
Light tripp'd o'er the meads, with a smile and a song;
While the sun cast its last, dying, lingering gleaming,
She carol'd a lay, and ne'er thought the way long.
And light was her step--as her heart's soft pulsation
And guileless she wished not in distance to roam:
Her brow was unclouded by frowns or vexation,
For she knew a fond welcome would meet her at home.
That home was the seat of sweet peace and contentment;
It boasted not luxuries, honours, or wealth;
But there no dark threats, and no look of resentment,
Deform'd the burnt cheeks of the children of health.
Sufficient had they for themselves and another,
Should the wandering stranger present himself there;
And never did Elinor's father or mother,
Refuse the poor wandering outcast his share.
But sorrow attends on each fortune and station,
Distributed equal to all upon earth;
And descends ev'n on those whose hearts' approbation
Proclaims them of virtue and gnuine
worth.
Thus not ev'n the innocent life of well doing,
So humble and lowly, by Elinor led,
Could hinder stern misery's frown from subduing
The maid, as she hung o'er her parents' death bed.
Thus reft of her parents, by poverty shaken,
Her home become cheerless and comfortless now,
Save her sighs, not a sound round her dwelling doth waken,
As she mourns through the night for her parents laid low.
Mild eve, whose pale light once beheld her so cheerful,
Now finds her reclined by the side of the brook;
Those eyes once so bright, now are rayless and tearful,
And cast on the water a wild glaring look.
But cheer thee, O Elinor! sorrowing maiden!
O! cheer thee, and trust in a father's fond love;
Who pities the anguish with which thou art laden,
And sends to thy spirit a ray from above.
Now trembling shakes the lengthened word,
And now the lyre no more is heard:
Much doubting stands our wondering youth,
If this be fancy--or if truth:
"Ah! what is that which moves so slow,
"As if it wished to be conceal'd?
"Surely, I should that figure know,
"Which now seems hid, and now reveal'd.
"If I might dare my eyes believe,
" 'Twould seem my goddess of the grove;
"If these do not my sense deceive,
"It is--it sure must be--my love.
The moon was bright, the form was fair,
The casement opened high in air;
But Edmond knew no danger near,
He could not stay--he did not fear;
The mantling ivy back he flung,
And through the open casement sprung:
A moment on the ground he lay,
While the kind zephyrs sportive play,
Upon his mantling cheek:
A moment--and the stun is past,
And springing up a look he cast,
The fleeting form to seek;
But vainly did his eager eye
Endeavour that fair form to spy:
For ah! the envious, sable clouds--
Pale Cynthia's beams in darkness shrouds,
And nought can now be seen.
But Edmond might not thus be staid,
Not thus might Edmond be delayed
From seeking out the maid:
Swift like an arrow from the bow,
He files across the darken'd plain;
"Propitious powers! smile on me now!"
He said, and ne'er look'd back again:
Vainly he sought each woody dell,
Vainly explored each shady nook,
He staid not there his grief to tell,
But leaped across the running brook.
And now again the moon's pure light
More cheerful made his lengthen'd way;
And now that form breaks on his sight,
Like blushing morn at rising day--
"Soon shall I catch thee, lovely one!
"If earthly mortal fair thou art;
"Soon shall the race from thee be won
"By me--but thou wilt win--my heart.
"Vain is thy speed--thou canst not fly
"From him whose hopes depend on thee:
"Or, if thou could'st, why would'st thou try
"To torture, charm, and fly from me?"
He runs, he stays him not for aught,
And now is near the flying maid:
Her ear his tender accents caught,
And one kind smile his toil repaid:
That smile, that look, hath stopped his speed;
He well could run while she did fly,
But when the race is won indeed,
He can but tremble, gaze, and sigh.
She waved her hand, she bowed her head
Then o'er a bridge she lightly sped,
Which Edmond had not marked before,
Nor had he now--but that it bore
The fair who had so kindly smiled,
The form which had his heart beguiled.
But now she hath the river past,
One lingering look around she cast,
Then, with a gentle, murmuring sigh,
She vanished from Lord Edmond's eye,
Among the embowering shades.
He had not marked aught else beside,
The fair alone was all his care,
But he too will across the tide,
Will learn to hope--or to despair.
But ah! where is the bridge she past
Close to his side?--'twas here just now!--
Does frenzy all his senses blast?
Or does heaven frown upon his vow?
A bridge there was!--but it is gone!
Vainly he seeks--none can he find!
He saw her form the bridge upon,
When late she smiled on him so kind:
He seeks along the river's bank,
Yet seeks in vain--a path to spy,
Till tired upon the ground he sank,
For here too widely flows the Rye
For Edmond's bounding leap.
"And am I then thy sport and jest?
"Dost thou then think! were too blest
"In seeing thee again?
Why dost thou, cruel, thus appear--
"A moment's space my heart to cheer,
"To give an age of pain?
"Why did'st thou smile so sweet on me--
"Yet from me still contrive to flee,
"In mockery of my woe?
"Can'st thou then mock me, haughty fair?
"Thus smile to see my stem despair,
"Nor spark of pity show?
"But hence, vain murmurings, hence away!
"I'll be thy jest,--thy sport,--no more:
"I'll to fair Holme,--to Edith gay,
"And this romantic flame give o'er.
"Yes;--thou shalt see I will not sigh,
"Nor languish under thy disdain;
"No more from Edmond need'st thou fly,
"He will not trouble thee again:
"Hence, foolish fancy of my breast!
"Since I have lived to be derided,
"I'll seek indifference and rest,
"And be nay heart from love divided."
He said, and homeward now he sped
With hasty step,--with aching head:
His cheek was flushed a deeper hue,
His hair was wet with morning dew:
His nerves were bent,--his breast was stung,
His pride, his feelings, had been wrung
With sense of injury.
He went not to the Castle gate,
He marked not where the warder sate,
He knew a readier secret way,
And cared not now to pause or stay.
The wall with ivy thick grown o'er
High up to Heaven would seem to soar,
Defying still old hoary time,
And threatening him who dared to climb.
No need had Edmond this to try,
For well he knew a fissure nigh;
To which the ivy closely clung,
And through whose opening oft he'd sprung,
When bouyant borne, with spirits wild,
He sought the plain, a lively child:
Oft then had Edmond joy'd to be
From Bertram's frowning Castle free,
Oft sought some peasant's lowly cot,
Oft gambol'd o'er the rural spot,
And frolick'd o'er the dale.
But not in mirth did Edmond press
The ivy back to gain ingress;
Not with a smile upon his brow
Did Edmond seek the fissure now;
No--his red cheek with anger burns,
While quick emotions dart by turns
Quick o'er his beating breast.
Onwards he past, nor cast a look,
Upon the bubbling--murmuring brook:
His mind was too distrest.
He passed unmark'd, he gain'd his room,
All there was wrapped in dismal gloom;
He flung himself upon his bed,
And well nigh was he tears to shed;
He tossed him o'er, and o'er again,
As if to ease his mental pain:
It would not do;--he deeply sigh'd,
Then to compose his thoughts he tried.
He felt his anger burn anew
When he remembered how she flew;
But when he thought upon her smile,
His heart beat high with hope the while;
He thought some unknown reason might
Cause her to fly thus from his sight;
She might not mean to shew disdain,
That kindly look she could not feign.
He thought upon the bridge she crost,
How strangely he that bridge had lost;
That it was real, he well could swear,
By all the pangs of deep despair;
And that when sought, the bridge was gone,
Was true,--but strange to think upon.--
He thought upon her gentle sigh,
He heard it on the echo die.
Was that faint sigh for Edmond heaved?
Or had his raptured thought deceived?
And then he thought, If form so fair,
Could deign to make his peace her care,
If she one throb of pity knew,
While hastening from his anxious view,
He were too happy,--he would fly,
And at her feet would gladly die.
Impatient now again to meet,
He counts the moments as they fleet;
Resolved that Phoebus' setting ray,
Shall not descend upon the day,
Till he his fair will find.
No nook, no bower, no woody grove,
Shall be unsearch'd; he'll mountains move,
If fate will but be kind.
End of Canto the Second.
The ideas of Edmond soar beyond the common level of mankind.--In contemplating the future, he abandons the consolations of probability, and feels all the horrors of the possible.--He loses the resources wherein vulgar minds find comfort on the rugged road of life.--He pursues "The Fair Vision;" again she is found slumbering on the flowery banks of the Rye.--Recognized as Isabel, a rural nymph of great personal beauty, singular elegance of mind, and delicacy of moral sentiment.--She wakes, and views Edmond in the character of a protector.--He reveals his tale of love to Isabel.--He wins her confidence.-- She confides to him a tale of woe.--It embraces the history of her Father, and her Mother Agnes.--Reduced by a variety of misfortunes, they strive to support a character in the world by the greatest self-denials, and the most laborious exertions.--They proceed to the wars abroad, and have claims upon every brave and beneficent heart.--They sigh and weep in secret, whilst, to the world, they wear the appearance of content.--Their trust is in religion: they acknowledge that it is the friend of every season and situation; the guard and ornament of prosperity, and refuge of affliction. The lamp of salvation cheers their weary way.
Edmond of Ryedale Vale. CANTO THE THIRD.
The scene is changed,--the sun beams bright,
The air is warm, and soft, and light;
The sportive zephyrs seem to play,
And kindly cool the sunny ray;
The humble violet rears its head,
Now peeping from its grass grown bed;
The feathered songsters cheerful sing
A farewell to departing spring;
Summer her gayest garb puts on,
And Flora doth her kirtle don;
Her fragrant stores around she throws,
And beauteous all her charms disclose,
While nature many a grace displays,
The sober, thoughtful mind to raise,
To that Great Power who reigns on high,
Whose bounties do our wants supply;
To teach a lesson to the soul,
To make us thank Him for the whole;
Him, who does all those treasures give,
Who made us,-- and who bids us live.
Phoebus was at meridian height,
His beams descended hot and bright;
They fell upon lord Edmond's head,
As cross the plain he quickly sped;
With thirst and heat well nigh to swoon,
To taste the brook he bends him down:
And thrice he drank the bubbling wave,
And thrice did he his temples lave,
With the fresh cooling rill;
Then rising up, he sought the wood,
In hopes to cool his fervid blood,
And rest beneath the hill.
Far, far behind he left the glade,
He plunged into the thickest shade,
And thought to find some cool retreat
Where he might shelter from the heat:
Well hath he sought the wood, I trow,
Well, where the Rye's pure waters flow:
Yet nought repaid Iris anxious toil:
Fate seem'd resolv'd his hopes to foil;
And Edmond almost feels inclined
To curse his stars,--his fate unkind.
He paces on, regardless where,
With downcast eye, and thoughtful air.
But peace, fond youth! ne'er tall at fate,
Soon will thy heart with joy dilate:
Raise but thine eyes, vain murmurer, see
A sight most welcome, sure, to thee.
He throws his careless gaze around,
To seek some shady, grassy mound;
Pausing, he starts in pleased surprise,
And almost now mistrusts his eyes.
But well it were for me to say,
What sight that moment did display:
Then know, to what he vainly sought
Kind chance his wandering steps had brought.
Upon a verdant, mossy bed,
Reclined the maids,--who late had fled:
Her sleep was like the sleep of death,
So still she lay--so soft her breath.
The shadowy branches o'er her hung,
While many a warbler sweetly sung,
In honor of the maid:
The brook ran murmuring near her feet,
And many a flower shed perfumes sweet,
As round her cheek they play'd:
Her ringlets sported o'er her face,
And on her cheek well might you trace
Each fleeting, pleasing thought:
She seemed to dream; a witching smile
Glow'd lightly on her face awhile,
By Morpheus' vision brought.
But yet, the very sooth to tell,
Edith was fair as Isabel:
Her beauty was more regular,
And all her features lovelier:
Isabel's beauty--was her mind,
That, ev'ry natural charm refined.
If a blush mantled o'er her cheek,
It did her bosom's feelings speak:
If she was pale,--another's wo
Had chased away the youthful glow:
Of sympathy she was the child;
And oft her friendship care beguiled:
Her earthly form was her least
part,
For she was chiefly soul and heart:
Above all art, or mean pretence,
'Cause she possessed a blessing,--sense:
Rather romanticly inclined;
You seldom might such female find,
So tender,--yet so firm.
A moment Edmond stopped to look,
The next--he sprang across the brook;
For ah! a sight with dread he sees,
Which all his glowing pulses freeze:
An adder, creeping through the shade,
Was crawling quickly towards the maid.
Ha! what can save the slumbering fair?
What portray Edmond's dire despair?
But not an instant did he lose,
He did not stay to think or muse;
A branching oak gave him a bough,
To wield it high he was not slow:
It fell upon the serpent's head,
And now his cause of fear lies dead.
His heart still beat for Isabel,
Still fear for her his breast did swell:
He leant against a neighbouring tree
And wished her open'd eyes to see:
His prayer was heard,--for with a sigh,
She woke--but knew not who was nigh;
She raised her head--she sought her veil,
She saw--the heir of Ryedale Vale.
A look of anger crossed her brow,
While Edmond bent in reverence low:
"Is't thus, Lord Edmond," then she said,
"You steal upon a sleeping maid?
"Methinks your lordship might have known
"I sought this place to be alone:
"I should have thought Lord Edmond knew
"Respect is to a female due.
Approach'd he then, beside her knelt;
His look ev'n scorn herself would melt:
Well did that look his feeling show,
'Twas love, and tenderness,--and wo:
"Fair maiden, deign to hear me tell
"What brought me to this woody dell;
"And O! in pity do not frown,
"While candidly the truth I own:
"O treat me not, fair maid, with scorn,
"Nor send me hence a wretch forlorn:
"Surely thou canst not chide the flame
"Which thy ownself will ever claim;
"But if thou canst, yet, ere I go,
"My bosom's feelings thou shalt know.
"At ev'ning when on earth I lay,
"I saw thee first:--thou fled'st away,--
"Long staid I there, and call'd on thee,
"But not again thy form could see:
" 'Twas thou that chased away the dream
"That o'er my mind that time did gleam,
"Of chivalry, and glorious wars,
"Of laurel wreaths, and honor's scars:
"I thought thou wert Minerva then,
"Who for the battle traineth men:
"I need not say how sad had spent
"That night, but pitying Somnus lent
"His ministering servants' kindly aid,
"To shew again the fleeting maid.
"But when pale night her mantle threw
"Upon the landscape bathed in dew;
"Her modest light when Cynthia flung,
"I heard thy voice;--it sweetly sung,--
"It banished visions dark and wild,
"But of its rest my heart beguiled;
"I thought thou Terpsichore must be,
"Goddess of song, and harmony:
"I saw thee glide along the glade,
"And not a moment more I staid:
"How quick I followed then you know,
"Until I could no farther go;
"How that you vanished, you
know well,
"But how, ev'n now,--I
cannot tell.
"I need not tell thee my despair,
"For that thou would'st but little care;
"Or how I frantic homewards flew,
"And cursed my fate, myself, and you;
"How vowed no more to think or sigh,
"For one who seem'd my vows to fly:
"How quick those thoughts did fleet away;
"Or how I wish'd for breaking day,
"That I might then explore the plain,
"Nor pause till we had met again:
"Or how since morning's doubtful light
"I've vainly sought,--till, nerveless quite,
"Chance brought me here to rest.
"And well it was that I came here:
"But who shall paint my dread and fear,
"When I perceived man's enemy,
"Yon serpent,--crawling towards thee!
"I gave it but a single blow--
"It served to lay the vile thing low:
"But O! had I arrived too late,
"How wretched had been Edmond's fate;
"O! had I come and found thee dead,
"Who o'er my soul had comfort shed,
"Vainly had consolation tried,
"For Edmond would with thee have died."
He ended here, his tale was said,
And looked submissive on the maid:
His cheek was flushed emotion's dye,
While love and awe stood in his eye.
His words, his tones, had touched her heart:
She did not bid him to depart.
As modestly he told his tale,
Her cheek had oft been red and pale;
She blushed to hear how much he loved,
And how in quest of her he roved;
'Twas pale, when he the adder show'd,
And told to whom her life she ow'd;
But when his tale was at an end
A thousand pleased emotions blend,
And varying pass across her cheek,
Ere Isabel can her feelings speak.
Why did she heave a tender sigh?
It was the breath of sympathy.
What was it fell so bright and clear?
It was a pearly, grateful tear,
A gem to Edmond due.
Not long did Edmond waiting stay,
Isabel what she felt would say:
"Forgive, my lord, my angry glance,
"So undeserved, I find, by thee:
"Since I should rather bless the chance,
"Which led thee here, to succour me.
"Call me not scornful, such proud thought
"As scorn, would ill become me now;
"The maid whose safety you have wrought,
"Should never such a feeling show:
"Then take my thanks, and henceforth be
"To Isabel a faithful friend;
"Nor e'er, my friend, suppose that she
"Can faithless prove till life shall end.
"I am no stranger to thy name,
"I've marked thee oft,--myself unseen:
"I sought not to inspire a flame;
"To chace thy thought I did not mean.
"My education, birth, and soul,
"Are not beneath thy own, I know,
"But yet did oceans 'twixt us roll,
"Or Etna's lava 'twixt us flow,
"Trifles like these might be o'ercome;
"Such obstacles might fade away;
"But poverty--that word doth sum
"All evils else,--bids hope decay.
"Nay tell me not what thou wouldst do,
"I may not listen to thy vow;
For if I did thou'dst dearly rue:
"But, Edmond, take my friendship now."
In vain did Edmond urge the fair
To save him from a dread despair:
Respect, esteem, she gave the youth,
Received his vows of endless truth,
But would not hear of love.
Upon the sod beneath the tree
Now peaceful sat the blooming pair;
No youth more graceful was than he,
Her mantling mind made her seem fair;
Her mind to practise art too proud,
She scorn'd all frivolous, childish wiles,
She did not seek her thoughts to shroud,
Or check her kindly, friendly smiles:
Secure, she knew her heart conceal'd
No thought which she need wish unknown:
She, candid, every wish reveal'd,
Nor fear'd each rising one to own.
Thus spoke Lord Edmond to the maid
While reverence his cheek display'd;
"If thou art friendly, Isabel,
"Give me a pledge, thy history tell;
"O! give to Edmond's listening ear
"To know how Isabel came here;
"How so long hid from my rapt view,
"And why from Edmond she withdrew.
"Say, dar'st thou to my breast confide,
"Nor fear thy friendship misapplied?
"Believe, if thou'lt depend on me,
"That Edmond will be true to thee:
"I'd ev'ry glittering toy resign,
"Might I but live to call thee mine."
He said, and to his beating breast
Her unreluctant hand he prest.
"Yes, Edmond, I can well rely
"Upon thy honest faith, and truth:
"Yet when to please thee I shall try,
"Thou'lt hear a doleful tale in sooth:
"For at my birth firm fate unfurl'd
"Her darkest banners o'er my head:
"And long a faithless, friendless world,
"At me her keenest shafts hath sped.
"Oft have I shed the tears of grief,
"Oft wept a parent's woe to see,
"Oft sought, in vain, to give relief,
"To one who mourn'd and sigh'd for me;
"O'er many a death-bed I have stood,
"Seen many a friend return to clay;
"And when by grief well nigh subdued,
"No hand hath wiped my tears away.
"I have been toss'd on ocean's wave,
"Without one friendly soother near;
"Till desperation courage gave,
"And I at length forgot to fear.
"My tale is but a tale of wo,
"Early the world's great book I read;
"But well my history may show,
"What thou mayst hope, and what mayst dread:
"Then, Edmond, to my tale attend,
"I'll shew thee, that I dare
depend.
ISABELLA'S STORY.
What would it 'vail for me to say
The name of him who rests in clay;
What crest adorn'd my father's sire,
Or to what rank he might aspire:
His spirit lives above, I trust;
His body crumbles in the dust:
His faults and errors, rest they there,
Nor e'er be wafted on the air:
Ne'er may the lips of Isabel
Her grandsire's failings dare to tell:
No,--I will choose a better theme,
Though but a woful one, 'twill seem:
I'll speak of one both good and brave,
Who now lies hid, deep in a grave,
By laurels shaded o'er.
Yes! a loved father's honored name
Will in my breast remembrance claim,
Till time shall be no more.
Suffice it then, there are but few
Of nobler birth, and fortune too:
Generous and open, spirit free;
And trained in worldly courtesy.
He was a younger, slighted son,
Whose days of wealth were quickly run;
For 'twas his fate, (he thought his bliss,)
To love a maid who had but this,--
Beauty and merit, wisdom, wit,
And constant truth, better than it;
Poverty was my mother's crime,
(And that, full well I wot, is mine.)
I will not tell thee how he tried,
To win the maiden for his bride;
Nor what he suffer'd from his sire,
Who still denied his fond desire:
Urged by the friend my father loved,
A treacherous friend, who traitor proved.
This said, what need I more to tell,
Than that he loved fair Agnes well?
The youthful heart to love inclined
To obstacles and reason's blind:
The world unseen,--its cares unknown,
Seems a fair path, with roses strewn;
The thorns concealed it doth not shew,
But seems a very heaven below:
All ills appear but vain and light,
If the loved object dwells in sight;
The rapt heart knows no joy so sweet,
As that blest hour when it shall meet
The object of its care;
And ev'ry ill that e'er was heard,
Is summ'd up in one dreadful word
Of horror and despair.
That word a lover's heart would tell;
How sad it sounds,--a last farewell.--
Edmond, 'twas thus my father thought,
When he his Agnes anguish'd sought,
And heart by care opprest.
He found her at the break of day;
Ere night he bore his bride away:
Fair Agnes was his wife.
He left his loved paternal plains,
His hopes of wealth, and wide domains,
And vowed to her his life.
They found a rustic, peaceful spot;
A pleasant, neat, but humble cot,
With jess'mine shaded o'er:
Here dwelt they quiet for a while,
Here daily shared their rural toil,
Nor wished as yet for more.
To train the fragrant jessamine,
To prune the wildly spreading vine,
Or lead the honeysuckle's boughs,
Till they the rustic bower enclose,
Was all their harmless care.
Like our first parents, free from strife,
They pass'd awhile a blissful life:
Like them, they wandered o'er the fields,
Enjoy'd each charm their perfume yields,
A peace beyond compare.
Music and books gave pleasure too,
The muses smiling, round them drew:
Poetry, loveliest of the throng,
Beguiled them with her sweetest song,
And gave her softest lay.
'Twas there, my friend, I oped my eyes:
There did my sun of life arise;
And here, most like, 'twill set.
Thou canst not tell a parent's love,
Nor yet what joy their hearts did move,
When I their eyes first met.
But if there is one hour of bliss
To sinful mortal given,
'Tis in the first maternal kiss:
The heart doth taste of Heaven.
My morn of life broke bright and clear,
And malice seemed awhile to sleep,
But O! the direful day was near,
When Isabella learn'd to weep:
My sire, unframed for scenes like these,
Not long could brook to live unknown:
Soon did his cottage cease to please,
Soon were his once loved pleasures flown.
War her red banner waved on high
On Portugal's resistless shore:
Her hills reverberate 'the cry,
Of discord's voice, the cannon's roar.
Loud did the swelling blast proclaim
The deeds of chieftains fierce and bold:
My sire alone mourned that his name
Unnoticed lived,--by fame untold:
He could not bear his humble lot,
Nor yet could wish to leave his wife;
For time had closer tied their knot:
He loved her dearer than his life.
Long time he strove his thoughts to quell,
And, for her sake, remain at home:
But well his altered cheek did tell,
How much he wished, yet feared, to roam.
My mother saw, and watched his thought;
Silent awhile--in hopes 'twould fleet,
But when she saw how deep it Wrought,
And that her gaze he feared to meet,
She felt her duty called upon
To seek into his care and woe:
And, ere another day was gone,
She sought his inmost soul to know.
Long time, with blandishments and love,
She question'd, ere he told his care:
Long, ere she might his bosom move;
To give her pain he could not bear:
But when at last he did disclose
His heart's most cherish'd, loved desire,
Her counsel gave his soul repose;
Her fortitude he did admire.
His meditated purpose broke,
He talk'd at large of prospects bright:
And while with boldness raptured spoke,
He quite forgot pale sorrows blight.
A flowery scene his vision drew,
A fancied laurel deck'd his head,
But ah! my mother could not view
Such beaming rays,--her hopes were fled:
But (for she knew her duty well)
She deeply hid her sorrowing fear;
Upon her lips bade kindness dwell,
And wiped, unseen, the trembling tear.
Kindly deceived, my father's mind
Was now prepared, and fixed to go;
Yet still he mourn'd to leave behind
The dearest comforts he might know:
But could he think to ask his wife,
To leave her quiet peaceful cot,
To plunge in battle's dreadful strife,
And share a wandering soldier's lot?
Ah! no,--his Agnes and his child
He must resign to watching heaven;
They cannot traverse forests wild,
Or clamber rocks,--by torrents riven.
Yet when remembrance o'er his soul
Portray'd the approaching time to part,
Anguish did o'er his bosom roll,
And sorrow filled his anxious heart:
His Agnes mark'd his misery,
And wish'd to give his bosom ease;
And though her heart was agony
She strove her much loved lord to please.
"I see," said she, "my wedded friend,
The weight of care within thy breast:
Well can my bosom comprehend
The cause why thou'rt by woe opprest:
Thou canst not lead this peaceful life;
Thou art resolved to roam afar;
And thou dost think thy child and wife
Dare not along with thee to war."
"O! my loved lord, what have I done
To make thee think I am so weak?
Think'st thou from danger I should run,
That thou wilt not thy wishes speak?
Dost thou not know the vows I made
Still to be true, in weal or woe?
And think'st thou then I am afraid
Around the world with thee to go?"
Surprised, my father listening heard
Words so unlook'd, so welcome too;
And brightening hope again appear'd
Upon his manly cheek to glow:
"I might, my Agnes, well have known
Thy tenderness and matchless truth;
Grateful thy merits I must own,
Whether in peace, or battle's ruth:
But (here he cast a look on me
Of kind paternal tenderness,
Then placed me gently on his knee,
And gave me many a fond caress,)
"But, oh my wife! this child!--our all!
She cannot go,--nor canst thou leave:
In battle's strife if I should fall
Who would thyself and her receive?
Say, who protect my child and wife?"
"Fear not for us," my mother said,
"We trust in an Almighty will;
We cannot by vain fears be staid,
We'll share thy fortune--good or ill:
No more of fear,--we'll go along
Where'er thou goest, we'll still attend;
Nor fear, while thou'rt in battle's throng,
Myself and child will find a friend.
Yes, my revered, my honor'd guide!
There is a Power who rules above,
That ever will for us provide,
And guard us with a parent's love;
We'll train our child to look up there,
Whether in wealth, or adverse fate;
Thus shall we Isabel prepare
For an unchanging, blessed state."
I scarce had number'd twice four years
When we departed from the cot,
Yet I recall nay mother's tears,
In secret shed,--and ne'er forgot:
Soon reached we then the Isle so famed
For beauty,--called a paradise--
"Eden of England" frequent named,
Like Eden, soiled by lawless vice:
There thousands ready for command,
Like war dogs waiting for their prey,
In martial order 'coutred stand,
Ready to march at break of day.
The scarlet coats, the burnish'd arms,
Instruments for the work of death,
For my brave sire had many charms;
They seem'd the leaves of honor's wreath.
Here you might muse and think 'twere well
If those brave souls condemned to bleed,
Upon this Isle in peace might dwell,
And for their lives there was no need:
But not long on the Isle we staid,
Soon to depart arrived the word;
And not an hour the troops delay'd,
After the war-cry's voice was heard.
We left old Albion's fertile shore,
Her white cliffs frowning on the wave,
And few there were that ever more
Beheld her rocks,--they filled the grave:
And many a blessing wafted round
The friends our dancing ship contain'd,
And many sighed to leave the ground,
Where all their hopes and joys remain'd:
But vain were sighs, and bootless tears,
Ocean and Boreas laughs at these,
The tears increase the wave that bears
The vessel hence,--the sighs, the breeze.
Soon stretched the canvass to the wind,
Our native shore was left behind,
It faded from our sight.
We crossed the dreadful, fearful bay,
Where the large porpoise joys to play,
And ocean, from his rocky bed,
Rises majestic round the head
Of the deep rolling ship:
Storming he roars as if, in rage,
With men he would a contest wage,
And deal destruction round.
Mountainous waves so high appear,
Crown'd with a white surge swelling here,
It might the sense astound;
While in a billowy valley now
Low lies the ship, from stern to prow:
On every side those hills are seen
Watery and dank, an olive green:
It seems as if no ship could rise
Above a mount, which scarce our eyes
May dare to look upon.
Again, she stems the threatening wave,
And rides most gallantly and brave,
Upon the watery hill:
Upborne she rises, proudly high,
The dashing breakers round her fly,
The breeze her sails doth fill.
But now the dreadful vale below,
A yawning, dread abyss doth show,
To fill the mind with fear:
Yet there no terror you might trace;
Stedfast the gaze, and stern the face,
Of every warrior here.
Ortegal, Finisterre, we past,
Oporto's town, Berlinga's isles;
Lisbon's high rock we saw at last,
It told the end of watery toils.
Proudly it rose in dignity;
The clouds a shadowy mantle gave,
Which lightly seem'd around to fly;
Its foot the dashing breakers lave.
We landed safe on foreign land,
And marshall'd there in proud array;
And few who then reached Lisbon's strand,
There were that lived to come away.
Soon to the army sped the host,
Where Wellesley led the bloody fight;
With hastening march the country crost,
And joined the force ere morning light.
End of Canto the Third.
Edmond of Ryedale Vale. CANTO THE FOURTH.
Isabel, the Soldier's daughter, continues her interesting story.--It evinces much knowledge of the late war and of the French character.--It unfolds many events of a tragic feature.--An episode, or introduction of Albert.--Martial train, and song in praise of poor Portugal.--Preparation for battle.-- The fight.--The fall of the gallant father of the lovely Isabel--Consolations of Albert.--His ultimate union with that "Fair Vision."--Melancholy death of Agnes.--Albert slain in battle.--The broken-hearted Isabel returns to her own shores.--Leads a life of solitude.-- The tale is o'er of sorrow and strife.--Reflections of Edmond.--His confessions to Isabel.--Rural walk and repast.--Song by Isabel.--Its moral declares-- when we despond under the calamities of life, we reproach ourselves: their sting may be sharp, but, if not poisoned by the hand of vice, the wounds are not deep.--Shielded in the armour of righteousness, the arrows of misfortune fall blunted at our feet.--Besides, love of pleasure is natural to the human heart; and Isabel knows that the best preservative against criminal ones, is a proper indulgence in such as are innocent.
Dark and dire are the scenes of war,
Fearful the swords' loud clashing;
When the trumpet's blast is heard afar,
And the charger's foam is dashing:
Drear the tale of the soldier's child:
And dreadful the sight of the battle,
When the war-cry is heard, so shrill and wild,
And the cannons hoarsely rattle;
Wounded and dying all in heaps,
Upon the damp ground lying,
While o'er the slain the widow weeps,
And the routed troops are flying.
Quickly the warrior's grave is made,
When ceased the tumult's ringing;
Quickly the gallant corse is laid,
Angels the requiem singing.
No time is there for 'custom'd cares,
When earth the body covers;
The widow only sighs her prayers,
As round the grave she hovers.
They say the shades of friends deceased
Still linger round us ever:
And that they joy when we're released,
And meet them ne'er to sever:
If so, then sure the valiant dead
Must hover o'er the warrior bold,
Must guard with unseen hands his head,
While reeking columns round are roll'd.
Yes, yes, they linger near the scenes
So loved--so dear--in days departed:
An airy shield still intervenes
To save the knight that is true-hearted,
The youthful friend of boyish days
Is still the aerial spirit's care;
As lightly round his form he plays,
He seems anew his toil to share.
But hoarse and low the moans that fleet,
Around the slain and the dying;
Plaintive and mournful, not unsweet;
'Tis the spirit's hollow sighing:
'Tis the welcome to the Stygian shore,
Which meeting friends do give:
There heroes meet, whose brows have bore
The wreath that e'er will live.
Loud, and more loudly, swells the cry,
When the war-horn strong is blowing;
When the banners unfurl'd are waved on high,
And England's standard's flowing:
When the contest's begun,
And the 'vantage is won,
Loud sounds the war-cry then:
While echo's loud roar,
Repeating it o'er,
Cries "victory" again, and again.
Yet little need I now to dwell,
On scenes which long have past away;
Such scenes I've viewed, yet need not tell,
It would too long my friend delay,--
Many a year passed over while
We strayed upon a foreign shore;
Either in gaiety or toil,
In courtesy, or danger sore.
Meanwhile, as years rolled on I grew
My father's anxious, fond delight:
He loved my airy steps to view,
And scarce could bear me from his sight.
In time of truce no bird more free,
Or revelled lighter, than did we;
In courts or cities there were few,
Whose grace could martial youths out do;
And, for the maidens of the train,
Few lords that might their hands disdain.
In peace,--as gentle they as fair;
In war,--their friends were all their care.
The soldier's daughter learns to steel
Her breast,--and but for others
feel;
The soldier's daughter only lives
For those, to whom her presence gives
Sincere and heartfelt joy:
She scorns all childish, female fears,
And if she weeps--she hides her tears,
Lest they her sire annoy.
With high resolve--she'd e'er disdain,
From fight a warrior to detain,
When the drum beats "to arms."
'Bove all those feelings she will rise;
With duty's call she e'er complies,
Nor stays for vain alarms.
O'er mountains wild our course we sped,
While the last sunbeam glittered;
And many a roaring river crost,
Retreating with the war-worn host.
One morn, when spent with toll and heat,
Fast following the foe's retreat,
We reach'd well pleased a rural place,
Where war had left full many a trace.
The march was long, the soldiers tired,
Some scarce for thirst and heat respired:
Eager they rush'd adown the hill,
And hasty sought a murmuring rill;
Our servant Donald, he too ran
To drink,--and fill for us his can;
Deeply he quaff'd the tempting brook,
And yet another draught he took;
Again he stoop'd, his can to fill,
Intent t' obey my mother's will,
But, ah! his cheek grew ghastly pale,
His trembling grasp appear'd to fail.
What was it ail'd old Donald then?
He stagger'd,--fell,--ne'er rose agen.
But not alone did Donald fall,
Of those who drank, none heard the call
Which summon'd them away.
When was the French a generous foe?
When did they ever mercy show?
When round their hearts did pity flow?
Not on that fatal day.--
The pure rill tempting to the thirst,
They poison'd by a drug accurst;
And the brave souls who scorn'd to fly
Were doom'd by treachery to die.
The weeping matron bending o'er
Her lovely daughter's bleeding corpse;
The peasant mourning o'er his bride,
Vowing no force shall e'er divide
Him from her breathless clay;
The bleeding maidens stretch'd around,
Dying of many an anguish'd wound;
The aged father kneeling low,
Striving to staunch the streams that flow,
Quick bearing life away;
The tear-drops, which were shed like rain
To find his ev'ry effort vain;
Spoke frenchmen merciless.
The murder'd babes laid lifeless here,
The frantic mother shrieking near,
Tearing her hair with gnashing teeth,
And twining many a bloody wreath,
Told frenchmen pitiless.
The flaming hut, the falling house,
Fired in a wanton, dire carouse;
The consecrated, sacred pile,
Ransack'd for gold, and worthless spoil;
The chapel-doors flung upon wide,
While ruffian hands its wealth divide;
Tells of their tutelage.
The statues once adorned and rich,
Torn from their place,--the high raised niche;
The altars fallen, the service plate
Stolen thence, with frenzied, desperate hate;
Speak loud of sacrilege.
Pictures and paintings grand defaced,
Which might a sovereign's court have graced,
Rich in illusory and art,
Where animation seem'd to start
From thing inanimate.
But worse than all, the sacred dead
Forced from its cold and dreary bed;
And O! appalling, dreadful sight!
Covered with worms, drawn forth to light,
Ev'n in this fearful state.
Would you know why the good and brave
Was dragg'd from its dark narrow grave?
'Twas done in mirth and glee.
The niche once filled by saints of old
Must now the warrior chieftain hold;
Round him they dance in mock array,
And feign a reverence to pay,
In this rude revelry.
Ah! horrid scene of wanton joy
Which one dread moment might destroy.
Oh fearful thought! if unprepared
Thus summon'd home, nor longer spared,
To ravage wide the land.
But no, the God, the God of love,
Permits them yet awhile to move
Upon this nether chilly sphere;
Until more humbly they shall hear
His powerful, great command;
To make the world his love confess,
His children, lowly kneeling, bless
Their great Creator's name.
Still shall I on my tale proceed?
Shall I recite more horrors o'er?
Why should thy heart in pity bleed
For woes which now exist no more?
"Yes, still go on," Lord Edmond said,
"My heart is not by war dismayed."
Resumed she then, "The army staid
Till morning her first beams display'd;
Encamp'd upon a smiling plain,
From which but few would march again:
For it was doom'd, Aurora's light
Should be the signal for the fight;
For to the west the foe was seen,
A riv'let only ran between.
Here stood the sturdy English guard,
And there the foe kept watchful ward.
The sentries talked with mirthful glee;
Though foes, they bore no enmity:
To night they're equal, soldier friends,
The morn their kindly friendship ends:
Now they shake hands across the flood;
The day may see them drenched in blood,
Drawn from each others veins.
It chanced this night, just as I've shown,
A veteran sentry paced alone.
Across the brook a foe he spies,
Placed, like himself, to guard surprise:
And finding it a lonesome walk,
He wished to hold some cheerful talk.
With friendly hail, and mirthful jest,
(Which suit the martial warrior best)
They entered on some jovial chat,
And talked, and laughed, of this, and that;
Enquired how stood each foeman's corps,
And what the strength each army bore;
Asked who would march to fight next day,
And wished for morning's blithesome ray.
Each General's merits next they scann'd,
And told how well their march was plann'd:
Extoll'd their own particular chief,
With praise which challenged all belief.
Their converse o'er, the veteran drew
His supper forth,--allowance too:
And, filling high with liquor bright,
Cried, "Pledge me as a friend to-night,
To-morrow we are foes."
Dejectedly the Frenchman said,
"To pledge thee I were not afraid
Had I the means like thee:
But we are very ill supplied,
Ev'n common comforts are denied,
Ev'n from the chief to me.
But though to-night we want our food,
To-morrow evening, drench'd in blood,
We'll ransack round the land:
Then ill befall the peasant train;
Of all their hoards of meat and grain,
Few will against us stand."
"Come, Frenchman, cease your surly boast,
We fear not all your hungry host.
The morn will see who fights the best;
To night come here, and be my guest:
You shall be welcome now to share,
An English soldier's evening fare."
Hunger o'er came the Frenchman's fear,
Half dreading, doubting, he drew near;
He stepped across the rivulet,
And face to face his foe he met.
The veteran's fare was light and good,
The wine was warming to their blood:
They ate and drank with mirth and glee,
And many a jest, and pleasantry.
Each filled a goblet brimming high,
Their chieftains' names the toasts supply;
Now George the third, a worthy name,
Now Bonaparte, known to fame;
Then parted they like valiant foes,
Vowing, should they by chance oppose
Next day, to let each other feel
The weight and sharpness of their steel.
Soon as the changing sentries past,
The veteran sought our tent in haste;
Saluting stood, with hand upraised,
While we attentive on him gazed.
He told my kind and pitying sire,
What brother chieftains did require.
My father mark'd the generous glow,
That mantled o'er the soldier's brow:
Well pleased, he saw his loyal heart,
Unswayed by enmity or art;
Then, ever virtuously inclined,
To help the needy of his kind,
He said: "Wait here, my good old friend,
That my commands thou may'st attend;
My brother warriors I will seek,
And largely of thy tale will sneak;
Full well I know they'll joy to do,
The good which ever is the due
Of brethren in distress."
With hasty step he smiling went,
His mind on liberal acts was bent:
His hand was never closed to need,
He loved the hungry soul to feed.
We scarcely thought him o'er the plain
Ere, smiling, he came back again.
"Here, Oswald, order forth a band,
Some two or three at my command.
In yonder tent a hamper waits,
Filled high, with wine and choicest meats;
These carry, with the Flag of Truce,
For those poor starving chieftains' use.
You brought the news,--so you shall head
The band which at thy suit is sped:
Go tell the French with joy we give;
And hope well pleased they will receive,
Ingenuous, from us what we spare,
To needy brothers in the war."
I tell thee this, my friend, to show,
That warriors kindly feelings know;
To let thee see, malignant spite
Ne'er shows itself beyond the fight.
No foe is spared in battle's rage,
From pity or respect to age:
But when the horn sounds the recall,
Their anger's o'er,--they're brethren all.
They fight not for a private broil,
But I retake my thread agen,
And never o'er his towering soul
And if ingratitude repay
"I promised,--while thou kneeling wept;
"O my kind patron, father, all!
"Nay, my good Albert, 'tis not so,
I only would impress thy mind,
Young Albert clasped th' extended hand;
And said,--"My patron, I receive,
"Now sing, my Isabel, a strain
Loud sound the blast, let it swell o'er the ocean;
Soon as Aurora's first blush shall enlighten
Soon will the moans of the enemy dying,
Then shall our warriors show,
Loud let the blast ring from river to fountain,
Scarce had my lyre died on the ear,
They might not stay to speak at large,
Albert still linger'd in the tent,
With awe he took my mother's hand,
"Thanks, gallant Albert! for thy care;
Go to the battle, gallant youth;
He cast a glance upon us both,
Awhile we stood,--in sorrow mute,
Here rank on rank, and spear on spear,
Or as a river bursts its bounds,
Pale discord sat to view the scene;
Gentleness with her train withdrew;
But ill would it suit Isabel,
In dread suspense, and anxious doubt,
And O! the sight that met our eyes,
Onwards we moved, and gazed with awe,
We sought all that we loved on earth,
At length we marked a bleeding corpse,
That kneeling figure, could it be--
O memory hence!--nor let me think
The soldiers laid him on his shield;
Nor shall my hands unpitying tear
"Then rouse thee, rouse thee, matron friend,
Bethink thee what thy lord would say,
"And thou, dear lady Isabel,
While distant nations, in dismay,
My tearful eyes spoke what I felt,
"Come, Albert, near," my mother cried,
But for this child, whom I must leave,
"Dear lady," said he, "quell your fears;
Shall level Isabella's foes,
"Well, Albert, hast thou read my thought,
My mother wept,--and fondly prest
Then side by side my parents lay,
Apollo, from his golden car,
I shrieked aloud,--and wildly cried,
"Some hours are only past and gone,
My good old servant Maurice take,
This said--his martial spirit fled;
Three corses in one narrow space!
Gertrude and I, and Maurice too,
And many a weary day we past,
One eve did we a hut descry;
There death in every guise was shown;
Soon hasten'd we this hut to quit,
And now I might pourtray a storm,
Of breaking masts, and shattered sails;
The tale is o'er of war and strife,
Silence unbroken reigns again,
But when she dwelt on Albert's name,
Something like envy crost his breast:
He saw tears in the maiden's eye,
Yet did not hope his bosom leave,
These thoughts passed quickly o'er his mind,
"Fair lady, my poor thanks receive,
O! think thy sorrows I bemoan,
So doth thy fortitude sublime
"Be't so, kind, sympathetic youth,
That thou may'st know where dwells thy friend,
Straight from the ground the maiden sprung,
Now leave they far the meandering rill,
Far to the right, full many a town
Who, with a breast and mind elate,
Entranced Lord Edmond viewed the whole;
Else oft I'd sought this lovely place,
She spoke, and, with a lighter tread,
He stepp'd him back a pace or two
The lady mark'd old Maurice' look,
"My gentle lady, my old dame
"Never apologize, my friend,
I know thee faithful, kind, and true;
The old man prest Lord Edmond's hand,
When glowing features well attest,
"Good Maurice, go," said Isabel,
Old Maurice said, "We'll do our best
She said, and touch'd the strings in glee,
"Nay, nay," said Edmond, "tis not true;
She minded not the youth just then,
What can allay the wretch's care
How gaily oped life's sunny morn,
The warrior's steel has cut the thread,
I heeded not the accents bland
Vainly he tried to dry the tears,
Let me not wish her back on earth,
There hand in hand my parents rove;
Still hovering round their Isabel,
All the soft and gentle graces, the sweet smiles
of winning beauty, the captivating blush of modesty,
the tender apprehensions of the feeling heart, again
become appropriate to Isabel,--The gem of love is now
the first object of the aspirations of the noble
Edmond; the dear solace of his most pensive hours,
and the sweet enlivener of his solitude.--The scene
changes.--Isabel is absent.--Edmond gone to the wars
of Spain.--Dark Bertram planned their calamity.--Bent on his son's marriage with Edith, he resolved on the
ruin of Isabel.--Strange events.--Stranger eclaircissement.--Edith and Bertram prove themselves monsters
of iniquity.--Isabel again appears.--She rises in the
reader's esteem.--She convinces her rival, that the
satisfaction derived from revenge endures but a
moment; but that which is the offspring of clemency
is eternal.--Edith's mind is filled with vicious expectation.--The sequel shows how miserable that being
must be, whose education tended only to inflame the
passions.--This was the case with Edith.
Months which come lagging on the heels of time,
Nor would it suit a pen like mine to tell,
And who is there that knows not, love and hate,
Or who, that knows the pangs of scorn and slight,
But why does Coacklees cot appear
How comes it that she doth not shed
But where is Edmond? can the youth
No,--faithful is the gallant knight;
But oh! that guile should e'er be found
But to my tale I now must hold,
Or mingling with astonished air,
He saw another fair had got
She who presumptuous durst invade
Then issued forth, with hasty pace,
Hours of content, and quiet peace;
But Bertram knew each path and glen,
Soft issuing from th' embow'ring shade,
Mutt'ring a curse upon that tongue,
Her voice again caught his fixt ear,
Which rises in the thronging camp,
Ev'n certainty, most dread and fear'd,
"That radiant orb is still the same,
Dark Bertram writhed with vengeful hate,
And as he gazed upon the maid,
He said: "This house is blest indeed,
Nor wealth, nor pow'r, nor rank, nor fate,
"Hold, frantic boy, and view one now,
Stain to my house! 'tis here thou strayest,
"Ruffian! stand off!" Lord Edmond cried,
If but one inch thou darest to stir,
"Wilt thou indeed, thou babbler vain?
Do not my features tell thee I
But, should'st thou bend thy haughty will,
With varied feelings did the Lord
Bade him look up,--forget they e'er
She who had moved mid courtly train,
Need I tell how the youthful breast
Suffice it then, soon did he tell
Scarce had he gone some day or two,
Lady, I grieved thy woe to see,
But let me all my tale impart,
A scornful smile his brow display'd,
With cheek high flush'd, with heart elate,
Blindfold they bore her to a room,
Poor Maurice and the good Gertrude
They hoped, till Hope's last sigh was o'er;
Some hours of solitude had sped
Isabel's heart throbbed high with joy,
She, hapless maiden, still beguiled,
Whose looks bespeak thy tow'ring mind,
The haughty fair replied with scorn,
Seize it within their grasp--and then--
"When ocean's fierce and angry swell
Think'st thou that I would tamely stand,
And, for thy sad and dreary doom,
Here Edith ceased, and turn'd to go,
Indignant rose--and proud she stood,
"Yet go not," Isabella said,
My heart, full fraught with tenderness,
Thou, might'st enjoy thy ill got prize,
No! by my honor, and my faith,
But Edith's kindly care has saved
Then, tremble, Edith, well thou may'st
Nor hate, nor ill shall e'er divide
"Hold!--minion, wretch!" the lady cried,
Here in confinement must thou stay;
Edmond visits the deserted abode of Isabel.--
He is forced to admit that perfect happiness is to be
found only in the palace of imagination; that wealth
and titles are the gift of fortune, and that peace
and content are the endowments of a well regulated
mind.--He is correct: superior indeed is that mind
which Can bear afflictions with patience, and a brilliant
fortune without vain glory,--He finds his reward in the
recovery of Isabel, and the fall of Edith.--They repair to
the Hall of Bertram.--He treats them with increased
severity.--They do not despond.--Despondence is an
addition to misfortunes; makes them heavier, and calls
down fresh ones from Heaven.--The vicious receive
adversity for a punishment, and according to the use
they make of it, it heats or corrodes.--The virtuous
welcome it as a fiery ordeal, from which they come
purified.--Patience softens present afflictions, and lays
up future happiness.--But a fearful catastrophe is
expected.--They are in She power of Bertram--a man
possessing that cruel and unfeeling temper which
rejoices not at the voice of gladness, and withholds
tears amidst the distresses of a fellow creature.
Music, thou charmer of the sadden'd soul,
Who can regardless list thy notes, fair queen!
Till panting, fainting, just in sight the goal,
But if you've awestruck seen a sable cloud
The captive complains of her sad lonely lot,
The sigh, should it pass o'er the cheek of my friend,
Unseen are the tears which bedew the damp ground,
The orb which sheds lustre upon the warm earth,
No longer on liberty's light spreading wing,
No friend soothes my sorrows, or lists to my woe,
My lyre, sole companion now left me in grief,
O Edith! O Edith! thy pity has given,
"It is indeed her voice I hear!"
'Tis Edith then who holds thee fast.
"But hark!--loud thunders shake the sky
The patt'ring, drenching shower descends,
That vivid light is gone again;
He said, and mid the ruin sprung,
Danger and death alike are nought,
She seem'd a disembodied sprite,
The vivid flash that gave to view
Kindly applauding, mark thy truth,
But hark! the wind in murmurs low
Till, led by jealousy and rage,
But what moves yonder, 'neath the tree,
Safe hath he guarded her this night,
His efforts, and his frenzied cries,
But when again he softly spoke,
"Can it be Edmond that I see?
And then despair a stupor gave;
"Not so, dear maid, for should my sire
No more will Edmond fondly stray
Then, if thy heart be not estranged
"O Edmond!" with a heartfelt sigh,
Not so are mine, for well I know,
But, that thou shalt not doubt my vow,
Then, Edmond, let what will betide,
"Well, be it so, obdurate fair!"
On earth our forms he may divide,
They go, they reach the Castle gate,
Not for the Muse to sing the scene
And in the world to come may find
Funeral procession.--A dead anthem strikes
the ear.--Bertram's frowns sealed the doom both of
Edmond and Isabel--They seek for happiness in the
waves of Rye.--Religion should have taught Bertram,
that vice leads to misery in a future state; and experience should have convinced him, that, in spite of
the gayest and most prosperous appearances, inward
misery accompanies vice here; for, even in this life,
her ways are ways of wretchedness, and all her paths are
woe.--He should have known too, that when once
ambition glides into the heart, it poisons every thing:
it wounds the soul; its scar remains for ever painful;
and every thing appears in an aggravated point of view.
--And all should learn, that reason or virtue will
never acquire strength, whilst to make a figure or
appearance in the world, is the predominant wish of
the mind.
What means yon moving, sad procession,
Those mourners with the cloaks, whose hue
Proud Bertram's frown had fix'd their doom,
Bertram, he heard their fearful fate,
And Bertram lived some sadden'd years,
Then Maurice gently follow'd near,
And then they'd mingle tear for tear,
But Time, who marches on with hasty pace,
He, to Lord Bertram, death's harsh summons gave,
Then Bertram's errors all were soon forgot,
All, all are gone;--the mourner and the mourn'd
Page
9. On the banks of the Rye, In
the vale of Ryedale, stood formerly a very handsome Hall, which I have called a Castle :--It was
sold some years ago by its hereditary possessors,
and purchased by a very respectable family, (the
descendants of which I have the honor to be acquainted
with,) who, finding the Hall too large, and comfortless
for their use, levelled it to the ground, and built a neat
modern country house, near the spot where the old
mansion formerly stood; and left but very small part
of one of the wings of the Hall standing, which still
remains an emblem of fading grandeur, and of the
changes which time and opinion are constantly
producing.
The present name of the grounds and hamlet
upon the estate is Ness, and what was once an
extensive and very handsome park, adorned with
Statues and every ornament of gothic magnificence, is
now chiefly cultivated ground, and luxuriant cornfields, presenting to the eye all the varied beauties of
variegated vegetation: yet here and there a
mutilated statue, or a falling pedestal, proclaims to
the observant beholder, that taste and grandeur once
decorated the spot; and the lover of Nature and
ancient times cannot but observe with regret, the
decay of those remains of rude elegance, (if I may be
allowed the expression,) which were once considered
as contributing to the beauty of the scenery, and
which spoke the wealth, powers, and consequence of
the owner.
At South Holme stood in ancient days a very
venerable and handsome edifice, then denominated
Holme House: but this structure has long been demolished, and there is not, at the present moment,
one vestige remaining to denote the spot where the
noble building reared its towering head. A farm-yard
now occupies part of the space where the Hall stood:
and where the lofty battlements, which spoke wealth
and power, rose frowning defiance on all invaders,
the blossom of the teeming orchard sheds forth
its perfumes, and the foliage of innumerable trees,
waving to the passing breeze, invites the noonday stroller to coolness and repose: while the tempting
fruit of the apple and the plum-tree, flourishing in
abundant beauty and full plenty, offers a rural refreshment and welcome repast.
South Holme is about a mile from Ness, and the
purling stream of Holbeck forms a boundary to the
two estates. It is supposed that Holme Hall was of
much more ancient date than Ness Hall; and it is
certain that it had fallen to decay, long ere Ness Hall
was taken down: however I have supposed the
houses to be cotemporary
, merely to give force to the
tale, and add interest to the plot.
I have imagined the Lady Edith to be an orphan,
and sole possessor of Holme, for the same reason;
but she is, in fact, wholly a fictitious character.
I need scarcely say a word to convince my readers,
that the heart of feeling generosity and valour was
never yet found, that was dead to this noble passion.
Real, genuine tenderness, softens every rude and
vicious particle of the human heart, eradicates every
tendency to vice, and implants, or nourishes, the tree
of virtue: it ennobles every thought; it exalts the soul;
it bids it rise above the petty artifices, the paltry
vexations, of this fleeting world; to fix its hopes,
desires, and wishes, on a never fading scene of blissful
immortality. The wishes of virtuous love are not,
to live a few years of variegated pleasure and pain in
this
world, with the object of its regard, but, to dwell
with that object for ever and ever, in the world to
come; to drink the waters of delight at the never
falling fountain of celestial bliss; and to attain that
blessing by honor, by principle, by virtue, by religion.
In this remark I mean not to cast any reflections
upon my own sex; though, undoubtedly, weak women,
like weak men, are frequently led away by show and
splendour. That the superior part of the sex look
for something more valuable than the mere trappings
of a coxcomb, has been, and is daily, proved beyond
the possibility of a doubt; the sex needs therefore no
champion to defend its cause.
I have put this remark into the mouth of a vicious
character, because it is frequently made by the silly
and the unlearned; and it is even a strong characteristick of vice, when men endeavour to degrade that
sex, which a gracious Providence sent into the world
with the same faculties as themselves, and who are,
by the decrees of Heaven, ordered to look up to men
as their supporters and protectors. How ill they too
frequently fulfil that duty, is seen by too many sad
instances; which, however, it is not my intention,
or the object of this work, to enumerate. However,
when we imagine a man contemning the laws of honor
and religion, we cannot be surprised to find him
ridiculing a part of God's creation; and it is only
from
such
a character, that the sentiment above alluded to
can be expected, and, in fact, can
proceed.
The circumstance here recorded is founded on a
truth to which I was myself a witness;--with the
parties themselves I was very well acquainted.
An officer of--regiment accompanied a detachment to a Spanish fortress on the Barbary coast,
viz. Ceuta. There he met with a Spanish lady of
rank and beauty, with whom he fell desperately in
love: her father and relations disapproved of his suit,
on account of the difference in his religion.
The lover, according to the Custom of the country,
declared his passion by serenading his mistress; but
her father dismissed him with threats: however, as the
fair object of his affection favoured his suit, the knight
of Erin was not to be so easily dismissed; he continued
to persuade the lady to consent to an elopement.
Accordingly her lover removed the iron bars from her
window, (which, like the generality of Spanish casements, had been strongly barricaded,) and by the
aid of a rope ladder obtained possession of the prize;
who was immediately received by several ladies of the
regiment acquainted with the plot; and the ceremony
of marriage was in their presence performed, on board
a vessel which was then sailing out of the harbour,
with the troops, bound to Gibraltar; where the
gallant Irishman triumphantly introduced his bride.--
I am sorry that truth compels me to add, that he was
not long spared to the enjoyment of conjugal happiness; relentless death, who descends with falcon
wings alike upon the young and old, cut the thread of
his destiny before he had been married quite a year;
and the tongue of fame did not scruple to assert that,
even for that short space of time, happiness was not
allotted to his share; however this might be, after her
husband's decease the lady returned to her friends,
where, after due penance done for the heinous crime of
marrying (what they called) a heretic, she was again
received to their countenance, and the bosom of her
mother-church: where we will hope she enjoys, at
this day, peace and contentment. Such is the little
tale which I have very briefly and imperfectly re-
corded, in Edith's Song of the Knight of Erin.
The peasantry around Holme and Ness, tell a tale
of a murder committed near Holbeck-bridge; and a
skeleton having been found beneath a small mound
on the rising hill near it, seems to authorize the suspicion. Whether the murder is supposed to have been
perpetrated on a man or woman, I cannot precisely
say, as report differs on that point: I have however, for
obvious reasons, chosen to imagine it the latter.
There is also a Vulgar idea that an apparition has
been seen, and still continues to walk, near the spot
whence the bones were dug; but, when we consider the
fine opening that circumstance gave for the romances
of superstition, and the terrors of ignorance, we cease
to wonder at the popularity of the tradition among
the illiterate and uninformed.
The peasantry in the neighbourhood of Holme
and Ness, seem particularly given to this kind of
romance; and, within the space of three miles, not
less than three or four of the gentry commonly
denominated ghosts are supposed to take their nightly
rounds, for the laudable purpose of terrifying the
unmolesting passenger, or chasing the untimely visitor,
whose hours of gaiety have been prolonged, till after
the god of day has withdrawn his glories from our
quarter of the globe. I can only say, I have some time
resided at Holme with the much respected family who
now occupy the premises, and, during that period,
have often fallen under the latter class of evening
strollers, through the kind hospitality of our neighbouring friends; and, I need hardly add, I have never
found myself or party disturbed by the presence of
the aerial intruders.
The Isle of Wight is the depot of His Majesty's
forces in time of war, and frequently culled "Eden
of England," from its excessive fertility, and extreme
beauty. It is indeed a spot where nature seems to
have poured forth her treasures with a lavish hand,
and where the charms of art appear to be rivalling
the bounteous goddess, to arrest the eye of taste,
and enchant the sense, with all the varied elegance
which the connoisseur in grace delights to behold.
The Bay of Biscay; whose high swelling waves and
dashing foam present a scene awfully grand, and
terrific beyond description. In time of calm the swell
is really alarming, and with only a light breeze its
continually ruffled bosom offers a fearful prospect;
but in a gale, it is too dreadful for description. One
moment the vessel hangs as it were in the clouds,
high-raised upon a mountain of liquid surge, tottering
on the brink of destruction: while beneath her, on
either side, appear immense gulphs, opening their
tremendous jaws to enclose their destined victim;
and all around are seen rolling mountains of water,
moving rapidly onward to envelope the fated ship,
and shut her from sight for ever. A moment, and she
plunges headlong into the abyss below, while instant
destruction seems about to overwhelm her; but the
next instant, by a wonderful power of buoyancy and
art, she rises over the watery hill, and, once more
soaring in the air, seems to mock the fury of the
elements around her, and laugh at the rage of the
wind and waves.
It has been my lot to experience all the horrors of
this bay. during a gale of eighteen days' continuance;
and I know it is impossible for language to express,
or for the mind to form, any idea of the awfulness of
such a situation, or of the dreadful grandeur of the
scene it presents.
Is in the morning generally covered with a cloud:
not unfrequently this cloud descends to its breast,
and, as I have said, appears like an airy mantle or
veil of ether: thus enveloped, first breaking on the
sight after a long, perhaps tempestuous voyage; and
after being many days, sometimes weeks, without
seeing land; it presents a sight truly sublime and
cheering, and is generally welcomed with delight by
the weary voyager. I think nothing can be more
beautiful than the appearance of the rock, as the
clouds slowly and gradually roll away before the
approach of the mid-day sun: thus gracefully folding
back as a brilliant curtain, disclosing to the anxious
eye the appearance of verdure and vegetation.
It is well known that, during the last Peninsular war,
the French took every advantage of' the British
troops; and the anecdote here alluded to was an
authenticated fact. The French troops were on their
retreat, (at which time they made a practice of committing every outrage which barbarity could meditate,
or cruelty inflict,) and, knowing the British army to
be near, they poisoned the wells in passing through
a village in their route. Wellington's troops coming
into the town, a few hours after the departure of the
French, much spent with fatigue, heat, and thirst,
the men with one accord rushed to the wells; and
great numbers fell a sacrifice to the unfair artifice
used by the enemy. It was no uncommon event,
for the British troops on their march to observe whole
villages in flames, and houses falling in every direction,
which had been fired in wanton barbarity by Bona-
parte's troops: and the dreadful circumstances of
the section following the before named quotation,
were but too frequently acted by the French army,
with every exaggeration of cruelty, that a merciless
soldiery could inflict. I have alluded to one of their
sacrilegious acts, because I thought it a most unprovoked piece of ferocity; it occurred at a town
in Portugal, the name of which has at this moment
escaped me, but it is nevertheless a well attested fact.
I learned it from an officer, who with his regiment
entered the town in pursuit of the retreating enemy,
a few hours after the outrage had been committed.
The real anecdote is simply this:--A Portuguese
Count, of noble blood, who was a very brave man,
had died some weeks previously, and had been buried
with all the honors that respect could pay, a high
station demand, and wealth purchase. This circumstance by some means reached the ears of the soldiery,
while they were demolishing the chapel in which he
was interred; they immediately tore up the marble
which covered the departed hero, dragged him from
his coffin, and, in the habiliments of the grave, placed
him in one of the niches, from which they had
previously taken the statue of a Catholic saint, for
the purpose of enriching themselves with the jewels
which adorned it. Having fixed the corpse in this
cavity, they amused themselves by dancing round it;
paying it a mock reverence, and practising upon it
such freaks of horrid sport as their brutal mirth and
depraved minds suggested; thus forfeiting all preeminence above the brute creation, and exciting in the
breasts of all, who were not dead to every sentiment
of humanity, virtue, and religion, feelings of the
deepest abhorrence.
It very frequently happened that a running stream
was the only boundary between the two armies. At
such times it was usual for sentries belonging to each
force, to be placed along the banks of the rivulet to
prevent surprise: at those periods they used generally
to hold converse together as brother soldiers, forgetting, for the time, all hostile intentions, or only remembering them to praise or vaunt the merits of
their respective leaders.
This occurrence is strictly true, and has been
avouched by the testimony of many respectable officers serving in the British army, and belonging to the
division where it took place.
This anecdote is a fact.--The discovery of the horrid
sight was certainly not
made by a female, but by some
officers of the Duke of Wellington's army. They had
been some time pursuing the French troops, and for
several weeks had been deprived of all shelter, save
the blue expanse of sky above them, with no other
roof than the shifting clouds. They approached
the hut with pleasure and delight, thankful to have
the prospect of a friendly covering for one night;
they entered hastily,--but they shrunk back appalled
from the sight which met their view:--they retired,
shocked and disgusted; execrating the cruelty of
those men, who had left their wounded brethren to
expire of want, neglect, and famine.
This relation was repeated to me by two or three
of the officers who witnessed the circumstance. They
supposed it to have been the hospital for the wounded,
who had been laid there immediately after a battle;--
and whom the French had left without food, or any
kind of sustenance. There, with wounds yet open,
with veins yet gushing with the blood they had shed
at the call of their country and their sovereign, they
experienced all the aggravated anguish of pain and
famine; expiring in tortures which mock the powers of
language, and set description at defiance.
Of all the superstitions which ignorance and
idolatry ever dictated, the worship of the Persians
seems the most reasonable. When we consider the
difficulty of an uninformed mind being able to comprehend the presence of an invisible Deity, we cannot
wonder that those which were veiled in darkness, and
shrouded by impenetrable ignorance, like the Persians, should fall into an error: or that they should
bow down in reverence before the glorious Sun, whose
kindling powers they felt, while they acknowledged
the milder beams of the chastened Moon as an inferior
Deity.
We who are favoured by a Divine light, who bask
in the full radiance of God's mercy, should look with
pity and consideration on the less fortunate lot of our
fellow brethren; we should behold every sect with
the eye of liberality; and, when we humbly prostrate
ourselves before the Divine footstool, we should make
many allowances for those who enjoy not the blessings
which we participate; and, instead of reviling the
less fortunate heathens, we should pray that the
glorious beams of the Gospel may be made visible to
them, and that they may also be of the same fold, and
at the last day may be collected under, one Shepherd.
In this world none can be excellent; and, if we
feel a right, a humble spirit, it will induce us to believe, to hope, that, however ridiculous the belief or
deed of another may appear to us, yet it may
possess much reason and truth, which we do not, or
cannot, perceive.
We who are enlightened by the holy word of the
ever blessed God, behold his great work, the Sun,
merely as an effort of his mercy and goodness to us:
the pale Moon appears to us equally as a useful luminary, created by a kind Father, for the benefit of his
erring children; yet we cannot stedfastly gaze on the
one; nor can we look on the other without admiration and pleasure: one inspires as with wonder,
astonishment, awe, and thankfulness; the other, with
delight and praise. Can we then wonder, that the
Persians should mistake one or both of those beauteous orbs for the real and existing God,--for the
monarch of their world, for the Creator of all things?
No: surely if there is any idolatry which may claim
excuse, it was, it must have been, that of the Persians.
This ingenious contrivance is not the production of
my own imagination, (although it is not to be found at
Ness,) but it has been used in the pleasure grounds
belonging to one of my acquaintance. A bridge constructed in this way, when placed in a sequestered
part of an estate, has a very romantic and pleasing
effect! and, one may easily suppose, would strike a
person unacquainted with the secret, with surprise at
its unexpected appearance and disappearance.
The view from Coacklees hill is extremely beautiful; and from the spot where I have supposed
Isabella's cot to stand, you may command a very
extensive prospect of hill and dale. The great number
of villages, which as it were spangle the vale beneath
the hill on every side, makes the scene truly charming:
and it is impossible for language to do justice to the
enraptured admiration, which I felt on first sight of
this lovely view. To be duly appreciated, it must
have been experienced; and I am sure no one can
stand on Coacklees hill, without feeling his soul
exalted by enthusiasm and delight.
Nor e'er does hate their valour soil:
The
For hers they fight, and not their own;
Then foot to foot, and hand to hand,
Britons for her will ever stand:
Nor e'er be't said, that they could flinch,
Or yield, in such a cause, one inch.
To tell thee what befel us then.
I've said,--it was decreed the beam
Of morning should on slaughter gleam;
My father seem'd this evening low,
But yet the cause he did not know.
Oft had he left us for the fight;
Oft had he safe
Page 114
Had lowering visions seem'd to roll;
But now, he viewed us all in turn,
As if he inward seem'd to mourn;
At length the awful silence broke,
And to a youthful Comet spoke:
"Albert" said he, "my youthful friend,
Hear me, and to my wish attend:
Thou know'st, I've father been to thee,
E'er since thy sire left thee to me;
Brave soul! well I recall the day,
When death did o'er his features play;
When from his breast the life blood flowed,
And honor on his forehead glowed.
He bent on me a dying look,
While his cold, chilly hand! took:
He said, 'O Colonel! take my boy
My only care, my only joy;
Let no vain fear my son divide
From thee, his foster-father's side.
O, that he was thy child in sooth!
But promise me, to guard the youth.
Well may it fare with thee and thine,
As thou in faith art true to mine:
Page 115
Thy care,--may he repent the day,
He slighted friend so good.'
And since that day my word I've kept.
Tell me, dost thou the scene recall?
And have I failed a whit at all?
Say, have i right discharged my trust,
And acted still--as thou thought just?"
Why dost thou for a witness call?
Thy goodness is well known;
And I should be a wretch indeed,
Deserving 'neath the axe to bleed,
Could I the truth disown.
Then why these questions?--how deserved?
In what have I from duty swerved,
Thus to incur thy doubts?"
Well do I all thy merits know;
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With what thy dying sire design'd.
As yet, I did not need request
Of thy regard one trivial test:
But soon thou may'st be called to prove
Thy gratitude, and filial love:
To-morrow morn we march to fight;
I may--be with thy sire,--at night.
Albert, should I be doomed to fall,
This evening's converse then recall:
If what I've
done claims aught
from thee,
Repay them
all--thou ow'st to me;
Soothe all their sorrows and their fears,
And dry their quickly falling tears."
"But check them now, my child and wife;
To speak of death--can't shorten life."
"Albert, we'll take some cheerful wine,
Here is my hand,--and give me thine;
And, though perhaps this night's my last,
Isabel shall sing, the time to waste."
With varying features then he scanned
My mother, sire, and me:
Page 117
With awe, the charge which thou dost give.
Henceforth be they my dearest care;
While heaven my life shall deign to spare,
It shall be held for thee."
Befitting to a martial train,"
My father cheerful said.
"Come, dry, my child, those flowing tears;
Unseemly now are selfish fears,
Unfitting high-born maid."
I tuned my lyre,--its chords I rang,
And soon the martial lay I sang.
I need not sing it now."
"Yes, yes, fair maid," Lord Edmond cried,
Sing once again the song of pride,
As it must be, I trow."
Page 118
SONG.
Loud let it ring till the foe hears the sound:
'Till, flying up wildly, in hasty commotion,
They leave in dismay oppress'd Portugal's ground.
Loud let the trumpets peal,
Loud clang the arms of steel;
Till every heart shall feel
For Portugal's wrongs.
The cliffs that arise proudly over the wave,
The Briton's bold faces with pleasure shall brighten,
To think that their aid a whole nation will save:
Each warrior's breast will swell;
Revenge on each brow will dwell;
Each falling stroke will tell,
Poor Portugal's wrongs.
Tell of defeat, as they pass on the gale;
Soon yon proud eagle on earth will be lying,
And tell the oppressors a sorrowful tale.
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That Britons mercy know
Nor e'er strike a fallen
For Portugal's wrongs.
Loud sound the horn, again let it sound then,
Loud, till the heart of the echoing mountain,
And valleys shall give the sound back again:
Till earth and air confess,
How Britons will redress
All who are in distress,
And Portugal's wrongs.
When loudly spoke the trump indeed:
We dared not tell our rising fear
As the loud blast did faint recede.
Like lions rousing from their rest,
My sire and Albert quickly sprung;
And, buckling on the brazen vest,
The belted sabre o'er it flung;
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Or a long, sadden'd farewell take;
My father only said, "I charge,
Thou wilt protect them for my sake."
(He spoke to Albert to remind
Him of what he before had said.
He was a youth, as good and kind,
As ever wore a knightly blade.)
He clasp'd us all to his fond breast,
My mother, self, and Albert too;
Then on our lips one kiss imprest,
And dropt one tear--affection's dew:
"Farewell, loved objects of my heart!
Farewell! that grief--those tears restrain;
Fear not,--though we so hasty part,
On earth--or heaven, we'll meet again."
He said, and vanished from our sight,
He could not stay our woe to see:
We might not wish him from the fight,
However wrung our hearts might be.
He waited for a last adieu:
And wished, ere he to battle went,
Our minds with firmness to endue.
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(As, silent fixed, she stood to gaze,
On the last glimpse she might command
Of him for whom she inward prays,)
With reverence he bent o'er it low,
And led her gently to a seat;
Then said: "Ere I to battle go,
Let me my promised vow repeat;
Dear madam, bear thy spirits high;
Full oft before thy lord hath fought,
And soon will Gallia's vassals fly,
Before the valour he hath taught;
But still assure thyself that I
Will linger near my patron's side;
This blade of mine full red I'll dye
In the proud Gaul's deep purple tide,
Who aims a blow at him."
Receive the thanks which we can give;
Friendship like thine we know is rare,
And long to show it may'st thou live;
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I need not tell thee what to do:
Past times assure us, that in sooth
The Gaul will well thy weapon rue.
Lightly upon our Albert's head,
Victorious valour, smiling sit;
May fame's bright blossoms o'er thee shed
The garland that thy brows will fit.
Think not I would recall my lord,
Or ev'n thyself from fight detain:
No,--by my honor and my word,
I hope to send thee there again.
Myself, and daughter Isabel,
Will watch ye from the rising hill;
There wish and pray ye both speed well,
Till evening shall her dews distil.
As if to leave us he was loth;
Awhile our hands he trembling clasped,
And then his sabre lightly grasped;
He waved his sword--he passed the door,
And then we heard his step no more.
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Till echoed far the grand salute,
Which told the General there;
Then arm in arm we sought a mound
Where we might view th' embattled ground;
Sight grand beyond compare!
Foretold a direful slaughter near;
Infantry here, a goodly band,
And there the horsemen proudly stand;
Here heaps of shot,--and powder's seen,
There cannons, scarce a foot between;
A hundred banners waving high,
On either side defying fly;
There the proud eagle towers amain,
And here Britannia graced the plain.
Each army drawn in dread array,
Tells the beginning of the fray:
Flourishes loud the trumpet's blast,
And now the aide-de-camps fly past:
Onward they charge,--with mighty force;
And close,--like tigers in the course,
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With noise that o'er the plain resounds.
The small shot flies promiscuous now,
The sabres deal full many a blow,
On many a warrior's head.
And then the cannons roar aloud,
While thick the smoke, a sable cloud,
Shrouds dying and the dead;
High rolls the column to the sky;
And now again the bullets fly,
With fearful vengeance fraught:
Now they retire, and now advance;
And then we caught a passing glance
Of him whom thus we sought:
Again he vanish'd from our sight,
Commingling in the dreadful fight.
And now the gale is fraught with groans;
It bears a heavy weight of moans,
And dreadful, hollow shrieks.
And envy glutted all her spleen;
Jealousy hover'd o'er the place,
With pleasure in her yellow face:
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In fright from thence they hastening flew
To England's hallowed isle;
Here found of peace the calm retreat;
And here, well pleased a friend to meet,
They learn'd again to smile.
The direful scenes of woe to tell:
I hasten on, as best I may
To close the horrors of that day.
Evening descended on the plain,
Loud sounded then the horn again;
It called the warriors from the fight,
And bade them rest till morning's light:
And, as is ever still the use,
It claimed a temporary truce,
Which might permit each valiant host,
To seek the friends whom they had lost;
To give each mourner time to shed
The last sad homage o'er the dead.
But evening brought not comfort then,
No sire,--no Albert, came agen:
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We waited long,--then sallied out,
To search the bloody field.
All language to express defies:
Here mangled limbs bestrew'd the plain;
There moved a slow and mournful train,
Bearing the wounded thence.
Here corses lumber'd all the ground;
There dying warriors feebly moaned,
Or Shrieking feared the sense:
Here kneels an orphan,--there a wife,
Imploring heaven to save the life,
Of those so justly dear:
Here lay the rider and his horse,
Killed by superior weight and force;
And there the foe lies near.
On all the dreadful scene we saw:
Yet nerved were we by stem despair,
No time was that, for us to spare
Our hearts for sad distress.
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All that could render life of worth,
And every care repress.
We raised full many a form of clay;
For drenching gore we did not stay;
We gazed on many a bloody face,
To see if we might find a trace
Of sire or friend beloved.
A kneeling warrior bending o'er:
His mantle, flowing on the gale,
Gave full to view his coat of mail;
His long plume playing in the wind;
His helmet by a chain confined;
His sabre on the ground was flung,
While o'er the corse he breathless hung:
He moved not,--for his gaze was thrown
Upon his valued friend alone;
And, but for his convulsive sigh,
His breathing you might not descry.
Who might it be?--we fearful spoke,
And thus the awful silence broke:
Page 128
Could it be Albert?--yes, 'twas he.
Who the dead warrior-was, and cold,
I need not tell,--thy thought has told.
On moments when, on frenzy's brink,
The mind, in dangerous wanderings lost,
Despair and horror wildly tost.
They bore my sire from off the field:
They laid him out in martial state,
And mourn'd his early glorious fate.
Albert, to his firm promise true,
Wiped from our cheeks affliction's dew;
Son to my mother, kind to me,
He deeply shared our agony.
"Oh! weep," said he, "I know you will,
I would not check pure sorrow's rill;
I bid you not those tears to dry,
Nor would I stop the rising sigh;
I cannot say, forget the name
Which well our reverence doth claim;
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The mourner from the hero's bier.
Yet, when the tide of woe is past,
Remember you will meet at last,
Where tears and sighings will be o'er,
And woe and trouble pain no more.
Remember that brave, valiant soul,
Has reach'd the blessed, wish'd for goal;
That glory sorrowing o'er him weeps,
While peacefully the hero sleeps.
Remember that his sword hath won
The wreath he set his heart upon:
And Oh! bethink thee how his blade
Full many a foe in earth has laid:
Bethink thee, o'er their honour'd chief,
How many a soldier bends in grief.
Hearts which unmoved in fight have stood
Tremble to see the gushing flood,
Which, issuing from their patron's veins,
His life and animation drains.
And to his soldiers solace send;
Page 130
Could he but speak, as yesterday:
He sure would speed thy courage now,
And speak magnanimous, I know.
Then lady rise, thy sorrows cease;
Thy husband, lady, rests in peace.
We all must weep the chief so brave,
But courage dwells upon his grave:
A living ray the fair imparts,
And lightens up again our hearts.
Then let my words thy anguish staunch;
And proudly deck him with the branch,
Which long thy lord vow'd to obtain,
The laurel,--which he died to gain.
Oh! calm those transports which do swell
Within thy breast,--like ocean's wave,
Bearing down forests in its rave;
Or like volcano which doth tear
Earth up,--sends rocks full high in air,
Till 'bove the clouds they seem to soar,
With murmurs loud, and thund'ring roar,
Page 131
Think heav'n and earth, in wild affray,
Have met in fearful warring hour,
Each horrid missile force to show'r,
Till earth shall from her seat be hurl'd,
And in dread chaos sink the world:
Turn to thy mother,--lady,--see,
She wants much comfort now from thee:
Thy father would command thee this;
I do but speak thy father's wish.
Nerve, nerve thy heart, and bear thee well:
Thy mother sinks, see, Isabel!--
Support her,--comfort her, dear maid;
(Nor ever by report be't said,
That feebly thou shrunk from the task,
Thy duties and affections ask.
Trust to my care,--I'll guard thee while
I have an arm for battle's toil.)
She breathes again--then see, dear maid,
How soon thy filial care's repaid.
And rouse ye both; thy Albert will
Turn from ye each approaching ill."
I weeping leant on Albert's arm,
My heart own'd friendship's powerful charm;
Page 132
As grateful on the youth they dwelt.
"Thou who with Isabel did'st divide
Myself and lord's parental heart,
And never yet did'st pain impart.
By fancy and fond hope beguiled,
We oft have call'd thee our own child;
That we have loved thee, thou dost know;
How much, I never knew till now.
And now I go to join my lord,
My Albert, mark my dying word:
Vainly would'st thou attempt to stay,
The tide that bears my life away:
My grief no human art can dry,
And from the world I joy to fly.
The sword which drank a husband's life
Seal'd the departure of his wife;
To him, my vows of faith were given,
And now I go to him in heaven.
And, but for this poor weeping maid,
Death would seem cheerfully array'd:
Page 133
An orphan, friendless, much I grieve:
Not friendless either,--Albert, thou
Wilt watch and guard her well, I trow;
Protect her with a brother's care,
And turn aside each vicious snare;
This thou wilt do without a charge,
I need not therefore speak at large.
Yet still, she may not here remain;
She may not dwell with warrior train,
Lest sland'rous speak the tongue of fame,
To soil her pure and spotless name:
And who shall guide her from the fray?
Say, who shall bear my child away?
And, Isabella, dry your tears:
If Albert may so high aspire,
Isabella need not hence retire;
If Albert's love is worth a care,
If Albert merits bride so fair,
Let Lady Agnes' word command,
And straight a husband's powerful hand
Page 134
Shall dry her tears, and soothe her woes;
Then calm shall Isabella rest
Her anguish on her Albert's breast.
Say, Lady Agnes, have I read
Thy wish aright,--or wrong have said."
And well my real wishes sought:
Yes;--only in the sacred name
Of wife--can she protection claim;
From husband only can she seek,
Support with an unblushing cheek;
Calmly can I my life resign,
When I have join'd her hand to thine.
Speak, Isabella, wilt thou take
Our Albert, for thy parents' sake?
I might command,--but I request,
And tell thee that 'tis for the best."
The priest was call'd, the knot was tied,
And Albert press'd a sorrowing bride:
Portentous hour! which spoke of woe,
When bridal tears o'er death did flow:
Page 135
Myself and Albert to her breast;
And then, a thousand blessings given,
She sighed her spotless soul to heaven.
Pale images of beauteous clay.
We knelt beside ther couch all night,
And separated with the light.
Again the bugle's note was heard,
As Albert buckled on his sword;
Then, fearing to his heart to yield,
With hasty stop he sought the field.
Had gazed upon the seat of war
Some three hours,--ere a faithful train
Brought my brave Albert back again.
A litter by their sashes made,
The wounded hero's form conveyed;
The cheek, which erst was flush'd, now pale,
Told to my heart a doleful tale;
The eye, ere while which sparkled bright,
Now shed a quivering, dying light.
Page 136
Till Albert soothed his sorrowing bride;
He gather'd all his fleetihg
strength,
And thus he kindly spoke at length.
Since I durst call thee, love, my own;
Since on thy mother's dying bed,
I vowed to shield her daughter's head,
From every ill,--from every woe:
But now--I must those hopes forego.--
To lead a life of peace--with thee,
Were bliss too mighty, sure, for me;
And heaven, in wrathful recompense
For my presumption, calls me hence:
Then hear me now, my new made wife:
Soon as thy Albert parts with life;
Soon as this stream shall cease to run,
And peaceful rest shall be begun,
Bury thy mother, sire, and me;
And from the scene of slaughter flee:
Here Isabella must not stay;
Then dry thy tears,--and haste away.
Page 137
And Gertrude keep, for Albert's sake:
A faithful pair,--they'll do their best,
To serve my Isabella's hest.
Old Gertrude nursed me from a child;
And Maurice watch'd my footsteps wild;
Well have they served their lord through life,
And well will they protect his wife.
All the small wealth which I call mine,
Isabella, take--for it is thine;
And speed thee back to Albion's shore;
There hide thee from the cannon's roar;
Seek some sequester'd, rural spot,
Where war's rude scenes may be forgot:
Yet sometimes think on him who died,
When thou weft left--a widowed bride.
Albert--was numbered with the dead.
Edmond, I leave thy mind to guess
What thoughts did to my bosom press;
Thus reft of every valued tie,
So soon my every joy to fly;
Page 138
O scene which time can ne'er efface!
With martial pomp the honor'd three,
Were laid, with sound of musquetry:
With mournful march and muffled drum,
To which re-echoing mountains hum,
We laid, within one spacious grave,
A lady and two heros brave.
I offered up one pious prayer,
And for myself besought heaven's care;
I dropt a tear upon the clay;
And then--I hastened far away.
Then bade the warrior train adieu;
And bent our course to where the sea
Might give a chance for them and me,
In some kind bark by breezes fann'd,
To reach once more our native land.
We travelled on in mournful mood,
Our thoughts still dwelt on death and blood;
The blue expanse of sky alone,
Was all the shelter we might own;
Page 139
And Dearly did I sink at last;
But in old Gertrude was combined
All that was pitying and kind;
Old Maurice quelled my trembling fears,
And Gertrude softly dried my tears.
And glad we were a roof to spy,
Where I might rest my weary head,
However lowly was the bed:
"Now, lady, cheer thee," Maurice said,
"Here shall thy way-worn steps be staid,
Until, thy strength recovered quite,
We journey on with steps more light."
I feeble lighted from my steed,
Old Maurice turned him forth to feed;
We opened then the cottage door;
Then fainting I sunk on the floor:
For oh! a sight appall'd me then,
Ne'er may I see such sight agen!
The hut was filled with putrid dead,
Left wounded there when Frenchmen fled.
Page 140
In placid smile, in ghastly frown:
Some sat,--some lay,--and others stood;
But all were drench'd in gore and blood.
Here had the Gauls left all their slain,
Who wounded fell on battle plain;
Here lingered they, till death did grant
Their fervent prayer,--then died of want.
A shelter for kind rest unfit,
And journeyed on as best we might,
Till Lisbon blessed our anxious sight.
We found what we much longed for there,
A ready bark:--the wind was fair:
We hove the anchor, cleared the bay,
And Lisbon lost ere break of day.
If language might such picture form;
Might tell how thunders rent the sky,
While o'er the ship the waves did fly;
Might tell thee how the rushing sea,
Pour'd in the cabin frightfully:
Page 141
But here my poor description fails:
Suffice, we reached this isle at last;
And now to end my tale I haste.
I chose for my retreat this spot;
And purchased in the vale a cot,
So deep retired, within the grove,
You never near it yet did rove.
Here I, with Maurice and Gertrude,
Have dwelt some months in solitude:
With these poor remnants I have left,
I cease to grieve for those bereft
From Isabella, in times fled;
And mourn no more the honor'd dead.
The place they're in befits their worth:
I would not call them back to earth.
For thy attention now, my friend,
Receive my thanks,--Here make I end.
The history of the lady's life:
Her murmuring voice no longer tells
The thoughts which recollection swells
Page 142
O'er the lone grove, and wider plain,
Yet think not that Lord Edmond's heart
Had taken an indifferent part,
In what fair Isabella said;
Though he awhile to speak delayed:
No,--with a thrilling breast he heard
With interest each falling word;
Bright hope sat smiling in his eye,
When told how Agnes' lord did fly,
Far from a frowning father's power,
To where peace did her blessings shower:
But when they to the battle went,
His soul on glory all was bent;
When shown the scenes of death and gore,
Of frantic rage, and ocean's roar,
On Isabel he cast a look
Of wonder,--that she e'er could brook
Scenes which might fear a warrior's sight,
And fill a maiden with affright.
His varying colour went and came;
Page 143
But envy there could find no rest:
No,--it was venial jealousy;
What Albert had been,
he would be:
Pity his feeling bosom crost,
And then he mourn'd the hero lost.
When told of battle's raging tide,
His bosom throbb'd with conscious pride;
He longed to try his sword among
The gallant brother warrior throng:
To Isabella's sire he gave
The reverence due to chief so brave;
The Lady Agnes' matchless truth
Drew tears of pity from the youth:
But to his rival Albert, he
Was drawn by consanguinity;
Not of the blood,--'twas of the mind,
Which may be felt, but ne'er defined.
And heard her heave a tender sigh;
He knew the tear for Albert shed;
He knew the sigh heaved for the dead;
Page 144
Though thus he saw the lady grieve.
'Twas not the lover, but the friend,
Whose loss bade falling tears descend;
The brother of her infancy,
With whom life had dawned happily:
For, though she'd been a wedded bride,
The paths of love she ne'er had tried;
But, 'cause she ne'er had known love's flame
She gave to friendship that soft name.
This Edmond hoped,--but still he thought,
Her friendship only must be sought;
If he could win the maid's esteem,
Her heart would soon with kindness teem;
And friendship might be soon procured
To worth and merit,--'twas ensured.
Not slowly, as by me design'd;
But quick as lightening did they roll
Across his glowing, ardent soul.
For the kind trust which thou dost give;
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Much, much more, than I could my own;
But thy last words full well do show
You need not what I would bestow;
Poor consolation such as mine
Were needless here,--better is thine
Than any words which I might say,
To chase thy sorrowing grief away:
And as the morn her light doth shroud
Behind some sable, lowering cloud,
But that she may appear more bright,
Refulgent bursting on the sight;
E'en as her widely spreading beam
Dispels each cloud by its pure gleam,
Till with proud majesty she rides,
Where no dark veil her light divides;
While gazing heathens joyful see
The triumph of their deity;
And, while their thoughts no higher sour,
They kneel in wonder and adore;
Ev'n so, dear lady, can I trace
In thee, both majesty and grace;
So doth thy light, obscured awhile
By tears, shed lustre o'er thy smile;
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Dispel thy woes, and laugh at time;
Triumphing over every care,
And making thee appear more fair.
And well might I the simile end,
To say, the heathen that doth bend
Idolatrous in homage low,
Is Edmond:--but I must not,--no,--
I ask thee not for love, fair maid;
If e'er I have it, be it paid
To deeds which shall deserve thy praise;
Which friendly thoughts to love shall raise:
At present, I will only ask
To share thy converse,--pleasing task!
My future life alone shall tell
What my heart feels for Isabel."
Isabel does believe thy truth.
And now, hehold
, yon sinking sun
Tells that his course is nearly run:
Long hath my woe-fraught tale delay'd
Thee, Edmond, in this sombre shade;
Come, I will lead thee to the spot
Where stands my lowly, peaceful cot;
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And haply sometimes thither wend,
To pass an hour of peace with one
Whose lighter days are past and gone."
While o'er her form her veil she flung;
Then lightly tripp'd along the tide,
With Edmond musing by her side:
With fairy hand she pressed the boughs,
Which in her pathway did oppose;
And 'cross the Rye was straight thrown o'er,
The bridge which he had seen before;
That, crossing with elastic bound,
She stood once more on grassy ground:
Then, stooping down when Edmond past,
Deep in the wave a rope she cast,
And instant, from the gazer's sight,
The rustic pathway vanished quite;
And as it rushed the boughs between,
It seem'd as if it ne'er had been.
The rope was carefully bestow'd,
Where o'er it high the river flow'd:
Simply, but artfully design'd,
So that no casual eye could find.
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Which Rye's pure devious waves distil:
They cross a verdant grassy mead,
O'er which full many a flower was spread:
And now a mossy path they see,
With here and there a shadowy tree:
This past they, quick as youth might do,
Intent to gain some object new;
And now on Coacklees hill they stand,
And O the prospect they command!
With wonder Edmond views a scene,
The like of which he ne'er had seen;
One so unlook'd, so sudden too,
As this, which now breaks on his view:
A moment, and the hedge so high
Was all the object he could spy,
Save the green pastured or the fields,
Or blushing rose, that perfume yields;
But now he stands upon a steep,
Whence he that dares a venturous leap,
Instant to dissolution's hurled;
Nor vaunts his daring to the world.
Here for awhile, in pleased amaze,
Our wonderer stands around to gaze.
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Of rural peace is thickly sown;
Stonegrave and Nunnington are near,
Oswaldkirk doth fair appear;
The hanging woods, more distant seen,
Now budding forth their verdure green;
Hovingham's Hall, a stately pile,
Built in the ancient gothic style;
There Slingsby Castle rises high,
The rustic steeple graceful nigh;
While close behind those hills arise,
Whose woody tops seem near the skies;
And but for whose existence, we
Howard's proud battlements might see.
His eyes proceed along the vale,
O'er many a gentle hill and dale;
Far in the distance they descry
Malton; then stretch their gaze to spy,
Passing o'er many a town between,
The Wold-hills--closing all the scene.
Now nearer they again do come
To view the frowning towers of Holme,
Whose haughty mien might seem to be
An emblem of the prouder she,
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Rules o'er the widely stretch'd estate.
Turning from thence the zephyrs play
On many a village in the way,
Ere rest their eyes upon the dome
Which Edmond calls paternal home;
And far behind the barren moors,
Inhabited by untaught boors.
Return we from that dreary place,
To where reigns beauty's rural grace;
Beneath the hill what fields are seen,
Where Holbeck purling runs between;
Cattle and sheep are grazing round,
And horses lying on the ground;
And lambs whose sportive, blithesome play
Reminds them of their childish day;
When they too knew no thought of woe,
But frolicked o'er the meadow so.
It might have charmed a duller soul:
"A scene like this, fair lady, ne'er
Have I beheld, nor thought such near;
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Replete with nature's beauteous grace."
"I thought," she said, "this view would please.
But mark, my friend, yon clump of trees:
Where circling trees o'erhang the spot,
See in their shade my little cot;
And mark yon bower, by Maurice made,
His mistress from the heat to shade;
To which the woodbine loves to cling;
'Tis there I lonely sit and sing.
There musing memory calls to mind
Scenes of my youth, with joy combined."
Towards the cot Lord Edmond led.
He follow'd quick, with heart elate;
Old Maurice oped the little gate,
Which gave an entrance to the ground,
Where flowers and sweets seem'd to abound;
Which Isabel would playful call,
"Her fairy garden," neat, though small.
Old Maurice bow'd respectfully,
When he fair Ryedale's heir did see;
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When Edmond caught his aged view;
Something like tears stood in his eye,
He thought of Albert with a sigh.
Why did that sigh his bosom swell?
Why rose a tear?--I may not tell.
A glance like that, she could not brook:
"I fear me, Maurice," soft she said,
"You thought my stay too long delayed:
But come, my good old servant, near,
And welcome here Lord Bertram's heir;
He comes to spend a friendly hour
In Isabella's verdant bower;
To cheer our sorrows and our woes
With comfort which from kindness flows."
In martial mode did Maurice stand
With eye depress'd, and high raised hand:
His mistress' kindly soothing voice
Could always bid his heart rejoice;
He bent him, while his cheek did glow
A grateful flush, full humbly low.
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And I have chid each hour that came,
And bid them hastier take their flight,
Till our dear mistress blessed our sight:
Sooth good, my lady, we had dread,
As heavily the day has sped,
Lest some mishap had done you harm,
Or given your gentle breast alarm;
And we had sought you long ere now,
But that we knew not where to go:
But thanks to Heaven's kindly care,
Which hath restored our mistress fair.
But pardon crave I,--I have said
More than need now have been convey'd:
I ought to know the tongue of age
Hath faults,--nor thus seek to engage
The time of those, whose rank and wit
Render them for such speech unfit;
I ask forgiveness, then, my lord;
Pardon an old man's tedious word,
Whose love for this dear lady here
Makes him irreverent appear."
For saying what I must commend;
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And honor thee, and Gertrude too.
Be rank and honors then forgot,
When I approach thy lady's cot:
You know me but as yet by fame,
Henceforth, I hope with Edmond's name
You'll couple that of friend.
As o'er and o'er his form he scann'd;
He felt his prejudice retired
While he the graceful youth admired;
For who but look'd on Edmond's face,
Kindness and candour there might trace:
Thus, though the. old man shook his head,
And thought on his loved master dead;
Yet for Lord Edmond there did fly
A look of reverence to his eye;
Not such as rank and pomp exact,
And law and custom still enact,
From poverty to pride;
But that to which esteem gives birth,
The tribute paid to genuine worth,
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The feelings of the labouring breast,
And tell it dare confide.
"And to Gertrude my wishes tell,--
Say, in the bower we mean to take
Such supper as her speed can make
Bid her to spread her choicest store.
'We'll in the meanwhile go before;
And, while she hastens as she may,
I'll strive to while the time away,
Lest the Lord Edmond think it long,
By singing him a little song.
To please our lady's high behest."
He went, and straight they reach'd the shade,
By boughs and circling creepers made;
Whose fragrance, wafted on the breeze,
Diffused its sweets the sense to please.
Here hung her lyre,--and with a smile,
"Come, my old friend, help to beguile
The tedious moments of a youth,
Tired of thy mistress' chat in soothe,"
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And rang a playful symphony.
How could I tire when near to you?"
Then louder rang the sounding chords,
As if she heard not Edmond's words;
And still, with air and manner gay,
She blithely for awhile did play;
Now softer, lower, is the tone,
The maiden's music's all her own:
Her features gradually regain
Their placid cast;--a thought of pain
Seems o'er her bosom to have crost,
And now that fleeting pang is lost;
A serious stillness seems to dwell
In the pure breast of Isabel.
The softened tones her fingers make
A modell'd air appears to take;
Her eyes upon the turf she bent,
As o'er her lyre she pensive leant;
Essayed she then the lay to sing,
But not then might she utterance bring;
A tear or two fell from her eye
Which Edmond wished, but durst not dry.
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As the tears fell on earth agen;
A sigh burst from her throbbing heart,
As from her trance she seem'd to start;
A blush of shame past o'er her cheek,
Which did her high wrought feelings speak;
Shame--that another eye should see
The tears which sprang from memory:
Indignant, with her hand she threw
From her wet cheek affliction's dew.
Lord Edmond turned his gaze away,
But what he felt, I may not say;
Reader, if love thy breast hath known,
Thou'lt know his feelings, by thee own.
Now Isabella tries again
To sing--nor tries to sing in vain.
ISABELLA'S SONG.
Whose every hope has perished?
What can restore the prospect fair
Which once I sweetly cherish'd?
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When youth and hope beam'd brightly;
But from my eyes the veil is torn,
To show a scene unsightly.
On which my joys suspended:
When I beheld my father dead,
My glittering prospect ended.
Which bade me soothe my anguish;
I marked not Albert's friendly hand,
But chose in gloom to languish.
I shed o'er hope departed,
Till found an object for my fears
A mother--broken-hearted.
A prey of melancholy;
No,--she enjoys the prize of worth,
And dwells in region holy.
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His breast no more is gory:
Cleansed from all sin by heavenly love,
They shine in endless glory.
While on this earth a rover,
They wait, till pitying death shall tell
My earthly troubles over.
End of Canto the Fourth.
Page [160]
Page [161]
Page [162]
ARGUMENT.
Page [163]
Edmond of Ryedale Vale.
CANTO THE FIFTH.
Pass quick as vapour o'er the poet's dream:
And drowsy hours, told by the clock's dull chime,
Vanish like lightning in his airy theme:
Happy were we, if, in our life's sad day,
We thus could skip the hours with sorrow fraught:
Happy the poet whose light, cheerful lay
Sings the unruffled bliss, from pleasure caught.
Not mine th' enlivening task to paint
Youth's joyful days, led on by laughing hours;
Not mine to tell, in fancy's pleasant feint,
The revels and delights of pleasure's bowers;
Such tale would ill befit a pen like mine,
Dipt in the sable tide of pale distress;
Whose running fountains, made by tears, combine,
To speak of woes; and anguish dire confess.
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How, month by month, and day by day, young love
Essay'd in friendship's guise fair Isabel,
And taught her heart from her pure breast to rove
How Edmond, still assiduous to engage
Her tenderness, would still, with gentle art,
Speak of esteem alone, her fears assuage,
And, to the fair, bright, glowing hopes impart.
Or how old Maurice and the good Gertrude,
Of their kind smiles and speech were oft beguiled,
When the Lord Edmond sought their solitude;
Since ev'n for their much wish'd regard he toiled.
Need I say this?--who is there does not know
That if one feels but gentle friendship's tie,
To our friends' kindred there will ever flow
A feeling of esteem and amity?
How much more then, when love shall inly dwell,
Does the fond breast a kind regard confess!
Ev'n to all near the loved one, there will swell
A soul subduing throb of tenderness.
Like brethren, very nearly are allied;
So closely knit, by sneering, wayward fate,
That o'er one breast they oft will both preside?
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Can disbelieve the havoc it will make?
Should foul neglect enrage a maiden bright,
Who is there doubts the vengeance she will take?
So dark, so cheerless, and so drear?
Why does the garden look forlorn,
O'ergrown with brambles and the thorn?
Why is the little bower laid low?
And why do Maurice' tears o'erflow?
Why do the furrows in his cheek
Of sorrow's channel mournful speak?
And where is Gertrude, his old wife,
The partner of old Maurice' life?
What is yon little hill of green,
Where here and there a flower is seen?
Old Maurice, tottering, thither speeds,
And bends, to clear the spot from weeds.
Why is this place the old man's care?
Alas! old Gertrude slumbers there.
But where is she whose pitying tear
Had fallen upon a foe's cold bier?
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Those balmy tears on Gertrude's bed,
O'er the old servant whom she loved?
Can she unthinkingly have roved?
No,--Isabella's tender heart
Would joy her kindness to impart;
She would not willingly withdraw,
If she this scene of mourning saw.
But Isabella is not here,
To heave one sigh, or shed one tear:
She is not here, to soothe the woe
That bids old Maurice tremble so;
She is not here to calm his breast,
And speak of peace, and endless rest.
Yet not by will is she away;
Not by her wish does she thus stay:
Her steps confined to one lone room
Of prison, wrapp'd in dismal gloom,
Within a dreary, hateful cell,
Vainly would she her wishes tell.
Have rent his vows of faith and truth?
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But Edmond mingles in the fight,
Beyond the rolling azure tide,
Far from the lonely, widow'd bride.
He thinks not of the woes she knows,
Nor guesses whence her sorrow flows;
He only dreams, when war is o'er,
To meet the fair on Britain's shore,
To lay his laurels at her feet;
And hears, in thought, her welcome sweet.
On lovely Britain's fertile ground!
That e'er a direful, vengeful, plan,
Should enter in the breast of man!
But, worse than all, that female grace
Should hide revenge's pallid face!
That beauty should essay to do
Deeds which a ruffian might rue!
And all its woe-fraught charge unfold:
Dark Bertram mark'd Lord Edmond long,
Still stealing from the busy throng,
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Or flying to--he knows not where:
No longer talk'd he of the war,
Or wish'd, as once, to rove afar.
True, he to Edith's Hall would go,
'Cause Bertram's pleasure bade him so:
But, though his errand had been said,
He tried not to obtain the maid:
Not, though fair Edith deign'd to smile,
Did Edmond ask her hand the while.
This Bertram said, and wonder'd why
From youth and rank he thus should fly:
Long did he seek his darkling mind,
Ere he Lord Edmond's thought could find;
But guileful Bertram knew each turn
Of thought, which in a youth could burn:
So skill'd was he in depth of art,
At last he read the youth's pure heart.
The love which he to give had not:
And deeply did he vow to rack
Her breast, till e'en her heart should crack;
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The heart he meant for high-born maid:
For well he knew, there were but few
Of rank, whom the Lord Edmond knew;
And his proud blood wax'd warm indeed,
To think, a peasant of the mead
Should dare, with hope, to look upon
His only heir, and high-born son.
And, with gnash'd teeth, and clenching fist,
He swore, the ev'ning's vapouring mist
Should not descend upon the plain,
Ere he the peasant's name will gain.
To where he hoped he'd find a trace,
By which his son he might discern,
And artful all his wishes learn.
He wander'd long, to many a cot;
Explored full many a rural spot,
And pass'd, full many a verdant glade;
He mark'd the bower, deep in the shade,
Surrounded by fair Flora's flowers,
Where the two friends pass'd many hours;
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But hours, which now for aye must cease.
For nought escaped his watchful ken;
Knew ev'ry winding stream or rill,
And every inch of Coacklees hill:
And had he not,--revenge and guile
Had crown'd his darkly labouring toil;
For he had vow'd, and he could do,
Acts which might chace th' assassin's hue.
He caught the accents of a maid:
Her voice thrill'd ev'n his flinty breast,
She spoke so like a fair at rest.
He stands a moment in dismay,
While crimes long past, in black array,
By hate and treachery design'd,
Came swiftly o'er his sordid mind;
He shudder'd, when that voice he heard,
With fear, yet knew not what he fear'd;
But not in breasts like his might be
Aught like remorse or charity
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Which in his ears a death knell rung,
He swore, were she an angel bright,
Did she dare charm young Edmond's sight,
Low in the dust her hopes should lie,
And he would smile to hear her sigh;
Would tear her from her flow'ry bower,
And make her groan within his power;
Would drink her tears as his soul's food,
And revel in her drenching blood.
As, slowly gliding, he drew near:
"Edmond," she said "behold yon sun!
His glorious race is nearly run;
See, gently, sweetly it descends,
While homeward every songster wends.
How oft have I beheld his beam
Sink in old Allan's flowing stream;
Oft watched his course with straining eyes,
As, listening to the varied cries,
Of bugle, war-horn, clarion, drum,
And all the bustling, mingled hum,
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Or rings throughout the batt'ring ramp;
Or on the long parade have paced,
(By military beauty graced,)
Hanging upon a parent's arm,
While music lent its 'livening charm,
And elegance and gallantry
Shone forth in pleasant rivalry.
And I have gaz'd upon that orb
When battle did his light absorb;
When smoke and flame to heav'n arose,
And Sol could scarce his rays oppose;
Till, vex'd to see war's blaze so bright,
He hasten'd from the dreadful sight,
And sending day's successor forth,
Bid him o'ershadow half the earth,
With his long cloak of raven's hue,
For ever steep'd in damp and dew.
How, then, hath this heart heav'd and throbb'd,
When evening came, in darkness robed!
How writhe 'neath misery's keenest sense,
That worst, dread horror, sad suspense--
Till almost frantic, madden'd grown,
By fear of wretchedness alone,
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A bliss to dire suspense appear'd.
Irradiate with light and flame;
Nor can revolving years e'er dim
His lustre,--or cause change in him;
But I--how have I chang'd since then!
O may I never change agen!
For, thanks to thy kind friendly aid,
Peace dwells with me, within this shade:
Yes, thanks to friendship's soothing pow'rs
Happy, thrice happy, pass my hours.
Past are the times when tears were shed
By me, for days of joy long fled.
A comfort dwells within the breast,
Which once was sad and sore distrest:
And sweet is the soul's calm repose,
I taste with thee, at ev'ning's close."
And nearer drew to where they sate:
Unheard, unseen by them was he,
Though now their persons he could see:
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He thought on one in stillness laid;
So like was she to that lost one,
He trembling thought on days long gone:
But the Lord Edmond's fond reply,
Repress'd his struggling, labour'd sigh
And at my birth was bright decreed;
When Isabella owns my care
Can any of her woes repair;
And this pleased heart shall ne'er forget
This lovely hour of Phoebus' set.
Mem'ry shall trace it in my mind,
In liveliest colours, bright design'd;
And with it shall thy image fair,
Live ever only empress there:
No warmer flame I'll e'er confess,
Though thou should'st still my love repress.
Call it esteem, or what you will:
My soul shall e'er be constant still;
And, though thy heart may prove but cold,
To thee,--thee only, will I hold
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Shall tear my heart from thee it's mate.
Be register'd my vows in heaven,
My plighted vows, thus freely given!"
Who will dissolve thy foolish vow,
Who'll teach thee to contemn his power,
And make thee dearly rue this hour."
'Twas Bertram--foaming wild with rage,
That sprang before their sight, to wage
A fearful war of vengeful spite,
And damp their hour of pure delight.
Wond'ring they stood, with fearful awe,
And doubted that 'twas him they saw:
So lock'd their speech, in fix'd dismay,
They heard him, all that he could say;
When frantic thus he onward spoke,
Ere they their fear struck silence broke:
"Dar'st thou, fond wretch! soil thy proud race,
And wed a peasant,--for her face?
Poor painted bauble! glitt'ring toy!
Fit to ensnare a foolish boy!
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And here, with that vile milk-maid stayest,
When thou should'st at my board preside,
Or woo fair Edith for thy bride.
O! I could curse thee in my heart,
To see thee play so low a part;
But I remember that my blood
Flows in thy veins, a purple flood;
But for this wretch,
--this low-born thing,
On her my sternest wrath I'll fling:
One circle of this sharp steel brand,
Wielded by this still powerful hand,
Shall give me her last fainting gasp."
He spoke,--and, in his furious grasp,
He caught the trembling, fearing maid,
And brandish'd high his shining blade.
And fearless caught her to his side,
"Dare not to touch her, or, by Heaven!
Thou'lt taste of death by Edmond given:
Not ev'n a parent's name shall save
Thy hoary head from its foul grave:
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In anger or revenge, towards her:
I'll show thee what this arm can do,
And make thee dear its prowess rue."
Then see,--I'll rend thy prize again,
Ee'n from the doughty Edmond's arms;
And kill her, blooming in her charms."
He said, and the pale maid once more
From Edmond with a wrench he bore.
His falling sword will surely rest,
Within the maiden's trembling breast:
But no,--the blade is turn'd aside,
'Tis Edmond's veins supply the tide
Of gushing gore which flows apace,
And springs into stern Bertram's face.
With frantic woe the lady sprung,
As wildly from his grasp she flung:
"O wretch!" she cried" see Edmond bleeds!
Another crime to thy black deeds:
Thou traitor, murderer, all that's vile!
Dost thou not know me, all this while?
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Am born as thou, as great, and high?
Does not my figure aught disclose
Of noble blood, that in me flows?
Dost thou not call to mind thy wife,
The author of thy brave son's life?
Or is thy breast so cold and chill,
That Isabella's name hath ceased to thrill,
With horror o'er thy maddened breast
Or can thy heart, so guilty, rest?
But if thy crimes thou dost forget,--
If thou can'st dare to scorn me yet,--
Know, I am Isabel's brother's child,
He, whom thy guileful words beguiled;
He to whom friendship thou did'st swear,
And proved thy artful vows but air;
He who, betrayed and hurt by thee,
Fled far away from injury.
Know that her tale Whose name I bear,
Hath reached my listening, horror'd ear
That all thy guilt, her end, I know,
And to the assembled world will show,
If thou darest lift that sword of thine
Against Lord Edmond's life, or mine:
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Thy secret dwells in safety still.
I've warn'd thee--and I say--beware:
Now be my fainting friend our care."
Silent, attend the maiden's word:
Her air, her form, her very face,
Affirm'd her truth:--for he could trace
In her, the image of his wife;
And fancy that she bloomed in life.
Fast thronging thoughts Lord Bertram felt,
As by the wounded youth she knelt,
Trying, by every gentle art,
To wake the pulses round his heart;
Something like pity or remorse
Rush'd o'er his mind,--with mighty force;
But vengeance for the threat she cast,
Was all the feeling that might last;
But yet he bid his features smile,
To hide his purpose, deep in guile;
And when reviving Edmond spoke,
His hand he fondly, kindly, took;
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Had felt aught like blind rage, or care;
Hoped he'd forgive the anger shown
Toward Isabella, when unknown;
Bid him a cousin there behold,
And all his wishes straight unfold.
But why, why should I strive to tell
Stern Bertram's guile,--since he feign'd well:
What more then need I here disclose,
Then that, ere Edmond sought repose,
With lighten'd heart, and thought of bliss,
He thought that Isabel was his:
And so well did his sire deceive,
That Edmond did each word believe;
And thought himself by fate carest,
Since Bertram's smile his choice had blest.
Some days of happiness were spared
To the lured pair,--by guile ensnared,
Ere Bertram, with insidious art,
Roused all the fire in Edmond's heart;
Talked of high deeds,--of martial youth;
And dwelt on tales of hero's ruth.
Said: "Isabella must despise
The youth who woo'd in rustic guise:
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And braved the dangers of the main,
Could surely no true interest feel,
For any youth save clothed in steel."
Then showed how pleasant it would be,
To let the maid his valour see:
To win one branch of laurel, e'er
He wedded Isabel the fair.
With that, content to sit him down
For life--and call content his own:
Told how, with guardian, watchful love,
He'd tend her, while his son should rove:
Ask'd, as a pledge of pardon given,
To leave her to his charge, and Heaven;
And vowed, with deep, dissembling smile,
To keep her safe for him the while.
Received the words his sire imprest;
Need I repeat how, worked upon
By memory of Albert gone,
Lord Edmond's breast 'was quickly fired,
And with a thirst of fame inspired:
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His purpose to fair Isabel.
She used no words to keep him back,
She loved too well the glittering track:
She only pledged an oath of truth,
And sighed her farewell to the youth.
When Bertram, to his purpose true,
To Holme's proud heiress took his way,
And thus his direful tale did say:
"Lady, when last ,I met thee here,
Edmond's strange conduct was our theme,
You wished the day of vengeance near,
And seem'd with high-born hopes to teem.
I saw the love which thou did'st give,
And much I joyed to think thee won;
I saw the slights thou did'st receive
From my ungrateful, foolish son:
I saw thy fair and beauteous brow,
O'ershadowed with a hidden thought;
Be that dark cloud far banished now,
For I have welcome tidings brought:
Page 183
Yet mourn'd I not, and stayed me there;
I gave my word, and vow to thee,
For Edmond's slight to make repair:
And, as I pledged my faithful word,
Your cheek again resumed its smile;
With soaring hope my plan yon heard
And vow'd to aid my anxious toil.
Lady, I had not spoke of past
Deep conferences between us held,
Were not our destined victims fast,
And their dark fate still unreveal'd.
To give thy bosom's struggle ease,
With speedy vengeance glut thy heart,
And every rising murmur cease:
Edmond is gone to battle, where
He'll learn a lesson for his good;
Should wounds await the youngster there,
They'll serve to cool his fev'rish blood:
That wench, who'd be his wife, in sooth,
Is now defenceless left--and near,
Thou'lt find a refuge for her youth,
Where her foul arts we need not fear."
Page 184
Harbinger of his fellest hate,
As thus in mockery he said:
"Poor Isabella's wretched fate!"
She whom he spoke to knew the part,
Which she by choice was doomed to fill;
Yet not one pitying drop did start
From mercy's never failing rill:
Revenge, was all her loved desire,
For wrongs to birth and beauty given;
Slight did her woman's breast inspire,
To rend the heart, which her's had riven.
She ordered forth her minions straight,
To ransack Isabella's bower,
And bring the maiden on the hour.
They went,--they found poor Isabel;--
The levell'd bower all else will tell.
The garden robbed of every grace,
Where nothing's left,--or but the trace,
To show where once the flowerets grew;
The holly, and the sable yew.
Page 185
Of Holme's dark turret, wrapped in gloom;
There leaving safe their wretched prey,
They hastened from the maid away.
Poor, hapless, unoffending one!
Whose days of woe will ne'er be done,
Vainly would thy far searching eye
Explore each niche, escape to spy.
Alas! there is no way for thee,
From Edith's power and wrath to flee:
Vainly, dost thou on Edmond call,
Thou dost but mutter to the wall.
Nor can thy wild conjecture find
The cause or place where thou'rt confined:
Yet trust in Him, poor, injured fair!
Who makes the orphan child his care.
To His high will thy fate confide;
He will protect--the widowed bride.
In fear beheld the ruffians rude;
They saw their mistress dragg'd away,
And watched the scene in dire dismay:
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For Isabella came no more.
Old Gertrude sunk beneath the blow;
Her misery ceased in tears to flow:
Some months she wept her lady's doom,
Then sought for peace within the tomb.
Old Maurice lived, for one small ray
Shed light upon his dreary day;
Life's feeble flame he hopes will burn
Till Edmond's much desired return,
That to his ear he may reveal
The loss of Lady Isabel.
In Isabella's lonely room;
And thought had eased her aching head,
Ere shone a taper through the gloom:
Approaching footsteps lightly fall,
Upon the maiden's list'ning ear;
Soft sounding through the echoing hall,
As quickly they approach'd more near:
The bolts recede, the door uncloses,
The pri'sner looks most anxiously:
Its opening a fair form discloses,
A female form, of dignity:
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She saw in hope a pitying friend;
Nor struggling guilt those hopes destroy,
As a soft glance she hastes to bend
Upon the form, whose beauteous grace
Bespeaks a maid of noble race;
Who, entering now the dreary cell,
Met the glad sight, of Isabel.
Upon th' intruder kindly smiled;
Nor saw the varying colour fade,
From the fair features of the maid;
Nor marked, her quick and hurried tread,
Or gloom which o'er her face was spread;
Or, if she did she thought it spoke
The interest which her kindness took,
In the sad sight of sore distress,
Which on her pitying view did press.
Full of these thoughts, unswayed by fear,
She to the maid advanced full near;
And: "Welcome, beautuous
friend!" she said,
"Such thou must be, thou noble maid,
Page 188
With high-born rank and blood combin'd;
Welcome, to this sad dreary cell,
Thrice welcome, to poor Isabel.
Thou com'st to cheer my lonely hours,
To soothe me with affection's powers;
Perchance to give my liberty,
And aid me from this place to fly;
Haply thou know'st why, thus detain'd,
Here I am bound, in woe unfeign'd.
'Gainst whom I have committed aught,
For which to this dark room I'm brought.--
Whose is tbis
house? perhaps you'll tell,
And who 'tis hates poor Isabel.
"Thou guessest right--I'm highly born;
But if thou seek'st a friend in me,
Thou art deceived;--thy agony
Gives pleasure to my aching heart,
And soothes the woes 'neath which I smart.
If tigers, hung'ring for their prey,
And watching close the live long day,
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Ere, harmless let it loose agen;
Then might'st thou hope I should forget,
The injuries through thee I've met.
An infant's gentle breath may quell;
When savage monsters peaceful lie
Near playful children, slumb'ring nigh;
When winds shall cease in wrath to blow;
When Rye's pure waters cease to flow;
When Heaven and Hell, in one shall blend;
And ev'n eternity shall end:
Then, think I'll be a friend to thee;
And, weakly, set my victim free;
Then, I'll forgive my wounded pride,
And live to see thee Edmond's bride;
Then, I'll forget he scorn'd my love;
And pity may my bosom move:
But, while these onward keep their way,
Allotted from the earth's first day,
Here shalt thou drag thy worthless life,
Nor longer cause a warring strife
Of passions, in Lord Edmond's breast;
Or there triumphant live imprest.
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And see him scorn my offer'd hand?
Think'st thou my heart was little pain'd,
To have my proffered smiles disdain'd?
To see a rival, such as thou,
Engage his heart, and hear his vow?
To know that love to thee was given;
Which in possession, I'd thought Heaven?
To find, my power, my wealth, and me,
Rejected, for a cot and thee?
Bear witness, all ye powers on high,
Who've viewed my inbred misery--
Bear witness, to the pangs I've known,
When insult such as this was shown!
And hear me vow, revengeful train,
To have a sigh for every pain;
To make thee drink the bitter draught,
Relentless, which awhile I quaff'd;
To let thee feel a woman's ire,
And make cold death thy lov'd desire;
To make thee rue when thy foul art
Won Edmond's unsuspecting heart.
Tremble--'tis Edith--bids thee so--
Heiress of Holme--my power thou'lt know;
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For life, thou'lt dwell within this room:
Thy lyre alone, I'll deign to spare
To soothe thy woes,--and smoothe thy care;
And, plebeian! think thou find'st me kind,
Even to leave thee that behind:
Indulge thou here thy airy dream;
I will myself provide a theme.
When Edmond shall again return,
Short time for thee--he'll sigh and mourn;
Then, not unmarked will Edith bide,
Nor will he seek a low-born bride:
Then, upwards here the sounds may flee,
Of nuptial joy and revelry,
Then, thou may'st weep, and sob, and sigh,
With pangs as deep, and sore, as I:
Till then, I say awhile adieu,
Content, to wreak my wrath on you."
While her dark smile revenge did show,
But she, whose heart had bent, subdued
By kindness,--'neath this sally rude
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While mantled o'er her cheek the flood
Of life--and with resentment's flush
Imparted to her cheek a blush;
That gave a firm superior air,
To the commanding injured fair.
This Edith soon, with conscious awe;
Espied, as turning to withdraw;
Such awe, as fix'd her to the place,
Contemplative on virtue's grace.
"One moment be thy footsteps staid:
Hear but this once thy victim speak,
Who will no longer mercy seek.
Thy person till this hour unknown,
I judg'd thee by thy form alone;
That, beauteous as the light of morn,
When first she glisters o'er the thorn,
Beguiled me with its lovely grace,
Nor fear'd I vice, beneath that face:
I thought thou kindly here did'st wend;
I hailed thee fondly,--as a friend:
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With eager haste to thee did press:
But, when thou told'st thy purpose dire,
In horror it did straight retire;
I mourn'd to find thy form concealed,
Thoughts thou should'st blush to know revealed.
Yet think not that I fear thee--No!
Do thy worst deeds--no pity show;
I ask no mercy at thy hands,
Nor dread I Edith's fierce commands.
Isabel fears no vaunting threat,
For she the direst woes hath met;
And unsubdued she'll brave the worst
That thou can'st do, with hate accurst:
And, for my blood, I tell thee, fair,
'Tis pure as thine and Edmond's are.
Stern Bertram, in his heart knows well
How highly born is Isabel.
For the Lord Edmond, his brave son,
May he return with laurels won,
Then, should he break his plighted vow,
I will not rail as thou dost now;
No--I should scorn the worthless love
That could from me, thus changing, rove:
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Unbought--except by art's disguise:
Thy revels, should they reach this cell,
Will bring no pain to Isabel.
For, lady, though my pride is hid,
Yet can it rise at virtue's bid;
And this sad beating heart of mine,
Is fraught with thoughts as high as thine:
I'd say--wer't not for courtesy,
What Edith is--I'd scorn to be;
I'd tell thee, were I placed as high
As thou--and thou as poor as I;
Could blund'ring fate, and erring chance,
Change our degrees and circumstance,
Isabel should teach thy vengeful heart
The virtuous female's lovely part;
I'd show what generous souls can do,
And be a patroness to you:
Yes! I, would bend my wish and will,
And friendship's liberal arts fulfil,
Such is the power of love's true
flame;
All others, scarce deserve the name.
Yet, lady, think not 'tis my wish
To meet from thee--such fate as this:
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I'd rather meet thy direst scathe,
Than taste of kindly amity,
Or aught that's good, bestow'd by thee.
Kindness had been revenge right fell;
It fast had bound poor Isabel;
By friendship bound--and honor fair,
Thy
happiness had been my care;
E'en Edmond's wish had been forgot
In contemplation of thy lot;
And, e'er thy kindness I'd abus'd,
I had this long sought hand refus'd:
His suit and flame had thus found end;
Both sacrificed to save my friend.
Me, from the pangs which I had heaved:
Thus Edmond's free to punish those
Who dare his plighted love inclose
In prison's bonds, from liberty;
And from those bonds--he'll set me free,
When glorious he from war shall come,
To seek his Isabel and home:
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When Edmond to thy fortress stray'st:
He will revenge his wrongs and mine,
And mar thy cruel, bold design.
Thou see'st thy shameful treachery
Excites no dread;--thy rivalry
And all thy arts alike are shed,
With bootless rage on this sad head.
I fear thee not--and dare to stand
Unawed, unswayed, by Edith's hand.
Or, if I own thy power at all,
'Tis but my spirits to recall;
To tell thee--since thou art so base
To soil with vice--sweet virtue's face,
I can thy bitt'rest hate defy,
And scorn the tribute of a sigh.
He, whom to friendship's kindred tone
I'd yielded--now is all my own;
That power above who heard me give
The youth my vow, for him to live,
Bears witness to the oath I make,
Ne'er from that vow to shrink or shake:
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Th' allegiance of the widow'd bride:
In life, or death, I'll still be his,
Bear witness, all ye powers, to this!"
"Lest speedier vengeance should betide,
Rememember
, foolish one, that here
No friends, no Edmond, can appear;
Remember, that one word from me
Might cut thy thread of destiny;
Think well on this, vain boaster! then,
Thou'lt guard thy speech, whene'er agen
I hither bend my lonely way,
And deign with thee awhile to stay.
Thou'dst best thy foolish follies mourn,
And own them, when I next return;
Then may perhaps some mercy flow
From me, to mitigate thy woe.
Yet let no thought of liberty
Awake, since 'twould but torture thee;
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Here lingering wear thy life away.
Farewell--thou know'st thy final doom:
This is thy house--thy home--thy tomb.
End of Canto the Fifth.
Page [199]
Page [200]
ARGUMENT.
Page [201]
Edmond of Ryedale Vale.
CANTO THE SIXTH.
How sweet thy accents swell upon the gale;
How softly o'er the bosom dost thou roll,
And tell to memory a mournful tale:
Ev'n the sad breast bow'd down 'neath woful care,
Lists to thy sounds with something of delight,
For thou canst lead the mind from woes that are,
And raise the thoughts to endless realms of light.
Yes--thou canst bend the most obdurate heart,
That e'er to erring mortal's form was given,
Thou canst a radiant gleam of hope impart,
And high exalt the soaring soul to Heaven.
To thy soft tones the hardest heart has thrill'd,
The sternest melted into extacy;
And at thy note, as taste or beauty will'd,
Sprung the bold thought,--or wept in sympathy.
Page 202
Thou goddess of the song, and harmony?
Not me thy bard,--or e'en yon youth, I ween,
Who gazes on those towers so wistfully:
He, poor sad mourner, listless and forlorn,
Return'd triumphant from a foreign shore,
Whose varnish'd picture of delight is torn,
And whose once blooming hopes now bloom no more--
He, poor unfortunate, returned elate,
From war--and hoped to meet a welcome dear,
But yellow malice wildly grinning sate
Hard by, to list the tale which smote his ear;
And oh! the agony, the dark dismay,
Which rent the bosom of the manly youth!
Let those repeat it--who unmov'd can say
Aught that is dreadful;--they will tell the truth.
And ye who know what 'tis to feel the blast
Of disappointment o'er your dearest hope;
Who've felt the chill which hope deferr'd hath cast,
And know against stern fate how hard to cope;
Ye, who have placed some cherish'd object high,
Have bent each circumstance and will to it,
Labour'd, and toil'd, and breathed the anxious sigh,
As some fresh bar appear'd, unconquer'd yet;
Page 203
For which you've long'd full many an anxious day,
The warm tides vig'rous through your pulses roll,
Reviving, as bright hope regains its sway;
Ye who've felt this--know how his young heart beat,
As in delight he sought the much loved spot,
Where the kind greeting he again should meet;
His Isabella's well remember'd cot.
Of misery, your every hope destroy;
If, touching bliss, you've clasp'd a chilly shroud,
And viewed the wreck of every glimpse of joy;
Then you may picture Edmond's anguish'd breast,
When Maurice' tale came sounding in his ear;
You'll know, why thus he seems by care opprest,
And why thus slowly sad he wanders here.
But hark! those sounds which steal upon the air,
From yonder turret--do disturb his mind:
See, how they chase away his bosom's care,
As soft they rise upon the passing wind;
Remembrance glances back to days long fled,
Hope once more trembles o'er his woe-worn soul;
He raises once again his drooping head,
And thronging thoughts fast o'er his breast do roll.
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SONG.
But unmark'd on the breeze is the sigh,
Which bursts from her breast, as she mourns for the spot,
Where friendship to soothe, her would try.
He'll deem a rude blast of the gale:
Nor think, 'tis the captive that tribute doth send,
While breathing her heart-rending tale.
Where, healthful or sick, I must dwell:
In vain I look wistfully, anxiously round,
There's nought but the walls of my cell.
Whose radiance I once loved to see,
To many a blossom and floweret gives birth,
And shines--but it shines not on me.
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I joy o'er the meadows to rove;
No longer in gaiety gladsome I sing,
Or trip through the garden or grove.
Though mourning and wretched I be,
No ear of compassion attends to me now,
No lips speak of comfort to me.
Sole comfort now left me behind,
Alone can bestow on my sad breast relief,
As it echos my tale to the wind.
But little of kindness to tell;
Yet soon will be ended, by mercy from heaven,
The sorrows of sad Isabel.
Cried Edmond as he drew more near.
"Poor lovely mourner! once more found,
Whom I had feared, laid 'neath the ground;
Page 206
Thank Heaven! I've found the truth at last;
For now short time shalt thou abide,
Far from thy Edmond's friendly side;
Soon will I burst thy bonds, sweet maid!
And all the plots which they have laid:
But soft--let me awhile reflect--
How I may best thy 'scape effect.
I might demand thee at the Hall,
But then--a tenfold wrath might fall
Upon thy mild, defenceless head:
A readier vengeance might be shed
Upon thee:--and, ere she could fly,
My Isabel might bleed or die:
No--I must lull the guards to sleep,
And hate in Lethe's waters steep;
I'll feign return to courtesy,
And baffle e'en their treachery;
Then, I will watch a happy hour,
To free the captive from the power
Of Edith, and her miscreant band,
Who vilely move at her command.
The sombre clouds thick gathering fly:
Page 207
And every thing a storm portends:
The nightingale suspends his song,
The screech-owl, frighten'd, skims along:
The lightning's forked flashes come,
And play upon the towers of Holme.
Heaven shield my Isabella's form,
Amid the horrors of the storm.--
That dancing flash--how bright and clear!
Those towers are strong,--or I should fear:
A crash!--sure something fell within
To make that harshly sounding din;--
How dark it grows!--I scarce can see;
And shrieks seem on the air to flee:
I never witness'd such a night,
Nor e'er saw lightning flash so bright.
Another crash!--some time worn wall
Must sure be struck;--perhaps doth fall.--
This way the sound appalling came,
And something like a light or flame:
I'll see what 'tis--if spared my life,
To save Isabel's amid this strife
Of element, so awful, grand,
As I ne'er saw on Britain's land.
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Twas lightning--or it would remain:
Perchance it on the tower did play
Awhile, ere vanished quite away.
I wish there was a gentle moon
That I might see the damage done;
And, if I reckon aught aright,
She ought to shed her chasten'd light.
Another crash!--my senses ache--
For surely all the turrets shake:
And like a cradle rock on high,
Where once they frown'd, and braved the sky:
The Hall is struck--it totters--bends.
Good Heavens!--now rattling it descends.
O Isabel! where art thou now?
Where shall I seek thee?--whither go?
No matter where,--I'll danger brave
And death--my Isabel to save."
And to the tottering ramparts clung:
The cracking walls on every side
Affright him not;--he seeks his bride:
Page 209
For he a moment's glimpse hath caught:
The parted tower displays the maid,
In her whitc
flowing robe array'd:
Her garment, given to the gale,
Her loosely hanging, snowy veil:
Her cheek, as pale as death's might be,
Her features, smiling placidly;
Her eyes devoutly upwards cast,
As waiting quietly the last
Kind summons, which should call her hence,
And blight her corporeal sense:
Her air, her attitude, and form,
Serene, amid th' appalling storm;
High raised above the world below,
Where Boreas' utmost rage did blow:
Recumbent standing there alone,
Without one sigh, or murmuring moan,
In conscious virtue rising brave
Above the terrors of the grave;
Her calm fix'd look, so mild, resign'd,
Her long hair, playing on the wind;
Gave her a supernatural air,
As one above all human care;
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Presiding o'er the boist'rous night;
Or like a soul about to fly,
Up to its native home, the sky:
Some spirit of th' Elysian shore,
Whose worldly woes were all past o'er.
The tower, and fair, and Edmond too,
Now vanished:--the dark clouds of night
Obscure all from the gazer's sight.
Stones rumbling only give the trace
While shrieks re-echo round the place,
Where Edmond went, in desp'rate haste--
But all is hid--the lightning's past.
Oh! Edmond, art thou gone to die
Amid the elements' anarchy?
Thou luckless youth!--wilt thou be lost
Amid the wreck--or upwards tost
By some explosion high in air,
The victim of thy sad despair?
No!--sure some gentle angel will
Watch o'er thy clamb'ring efforts still;
Page 211
And prosper such a gallant youth.
Tells that the tempest's over now:
The clouds retreating from the sky,
Show lovely Cynthia riding high:
A calm succeeds of mild repose,
Like summer evening's peaceful close:
But Holme no more triumphant stands,
Frowning o'er Ryedale's blooming lands.
Low on the earth, her towers are laid,
And 'neath them lies the haughty maid,
Who, proud of beauty, rank, and power,
Has lost the whole in one short hour:
She, blest with titles, grace, and wealth,
And lovely, blooming: bright in health;
And virtuous--had not vanity
Obscured her bosom's charity,
Or had not an unbridled pride
Been suffer'd in her breast to 'bide;
There choosing for its daily food
To drink each particle of good,
Page 212
She dared 'gainst virtue war to wage,
And linked herself confederate
With Bertram--to pursue her hate;
He who, assasin
like, had done
What virtue fear'd to think upon.
Thus went she, step by step, in ill,
And haply had gone farther still;
But heaven stopt short her wild career,
And caused the scene of ruin here.
Stopt is her course--ceased is her breath,
The haughty Edith--sleeps in death.
Yon branching elm--so languidly?
Is that the luckless, captive maid,
That on the dewy sod is laid?
Is that Lord Edmond, bending o'er
Her lifeless form, and seeming corpse;
Now calling on her to revive,
And for his sake awhile to live?
Yes--that is the poor widow'd bride,
And that is Edmond, by her side:
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Unhurt except by mental fright;
Or wild surprise, I ought to say,
So hasty borne by one away,
Whose form unseen, she thought unknown.
He dared not trust his voice's tone,
To bid her drooping soul to cheer,
Till ceased a single cause for fear;
And then, with kindest tenderness,
He bade her all her fear repress:
But she was then insensible,
And Edmond's woe was terrible;
He called full loudly on her name,
And cursed his foolish thirst of fame,
Which made him from the maiden sever,
And then abjured fame's paths for ever.
Recall'd the fair; she opes her eyes,
And silently she clears her view,
And looks a moment's space or two,
Incredulous, as if she fear'd
She did but dream of what she heard:
Page 214
Her breast with keen emotions shook,
She sprung her from the chilly ground,
And cast an anxious gaze around;
Then, with a fix'd inquiring look,
Her thoughts a form'd expression took.
Whom I have looked for anxiously,
Through many years of care and woe,
Mark'd only as my tears did flow:
While winter's snow and summer's sun,
Six times their circling course have run:
With no companion but a thought
Of thee--and that with sorrow fraught;
Or save my lyre, the only friend
My jailor's grudging care would lend.
How have I hoped this day would come,
When thou would'st wander near to Holme:
Have sought a temporary ease,
By singing to the passing breeze:
And every changing hour that came
I fondly whisper'd Edmond's name,
Page 215
And I but long'd to find a grave,
Where, senseless, quiet, I might be
Safe from all worldly rivalry.--
And do we meet!--thus meet again!
And thou art he who bore me then,
Far from my falling, mouldering cell;
And saved once more thy Isabel.
Life thus preserved by thee I take,
To cherish for the donor's sake;
But O! that in such hour as this
We thus should meet! yet it is bliss
In any place to meet with thee,
Whom never more I hoped to see;
Yet bootless too--thy father may
Bid us to separate with day;
And should he--then 'twill be the same
As though thou ne'er to Ryedale came."
Deny his son's beseeching prayer,
We can, my Isabel, retire,
And Ryedale leave to others' care.
Page 216
From thee and happiness away;
No dreams of glory now assail,
With mighty force, my beating breast:
I've learned her honors nought avail,
To give the sorrowing wanderer rest.
Then should Lord Bertram disapprove
The union of thyself and me,
Or cast upon our constant love
His frown, we'll leave his treachery;
For 'twould be such, if he could so
Damp the affection he hath blest,
When at thy cot he did bestow
His smile--then Isabel carest,
And bid me view in thee, fair maid!
Who wert a relative and friend,
The image of my parent dead,
And for her sake thy youth to tend:
Charge which my throbbing heart received
As the best boon bestow'd by heaven,
And thou no longer sigh'd or grieved
For all the blessings from thee riven.
Page 217
By six long years of dungeon's gloom,
Borne for my sake, (which may have chang'd
Thee, that thou wilt not share my doom,)
Think on the hour of evening's set
When thou didst kindly speak to me,
In thy lone bower, when Bertram met
Thee first, unknown--and smiled on thee;
Think on the cheering hopes he gave
To my fond suit; and let me now
Lead thee, to where his hand may wave
A blessing o'er thy lovely brow;
Let me to Ryedale Castle bear
Thee, Bertram's welcome to receive,
Then Isabel again shall wear
A playful smile, and cease to grieve:
There, mistress of the wide domain,
Thou shalt in plenteous peace reside,
And all our vassals of the plain
Shall crowd to greet my lovely bride."
Exclaimed the maid, "thy hopes are high;
Page 218
Nought like this bliss for me can flow:
I know thy sire--believe I do,
Better, then even, Edmond, you:
I've known his treachery erewhile,
Yes, deeply known and felt his guile.
But he's thy sire--I therefore cease
To tell his faults--die they in peace;
Crimes, I might say, the truth to speak,
But that such word would flush thy cheek
With anger, which I should behold
Applausive:--but, if sooth be told,
I'd rather seek my rural cot,
There live unknown, and die forgot,
Than go to Bertram's dwelling, where
I might encounter weightier care
And (for I trust not such a man
Whose lowering brow one may not scan)
I do believe he will deny
The hapless suit which thou wouldst try;
I do believe such bride forlorn
For thee, his heir, thy sire will scorn;
That Isabel from his hall he'll thrust,
And lay thy rising hopes in dust.--
Page 219
I'll go with thee to Ryedale now;
For thee I'll once more brave his wrath,
Nor shrink from his most deadly scathe:
For death and woes affright not
Who sighs a heavenly garb to don;
One who is tired of worldly strife,
And only longs to part with life;
Who has no hope but from above,
And wishes for celestial love:
Yet, to assure thee, had not woe
Blighted the hopes which once did glow,
I had been wholly Edmond's still,
I will attend, this once, thy will:
Or I should say, what's left of me
On earth still lingers here for thee;
And only when my soul shall bear
Its upward flight, (and that is near,)
Can Isabella e'er forget
Her plighted vows, and evening's set:
But though, for my poor life twice given,
Grateful I am to thee and heaven;
Yet, should thy father do my thought,
And curse our union, vengeance fraught,
Page 220
Thou ne'er shalt call Isabel thy bride.
If he is kind--I'm thine for life;
If not--in heaven thou'lt meet thy wife.
Now go we; for thou hast my will:
Thou can'st not change it, well or ill."
Lord Edmond said repaoachfully
,
"I do not, Isabel, despair
My 'complish'd wish on earth to see:
But (and he fix'd a serious gaze
Upon the maiden's faded face)
But, should thy warning aught portend
Of evil, I accept the fate,
Which hovers o'er me to descend
In kindness--or in fiercest hate.
And as I've patient heard thee all
Which, cruel one, thou well couldst say,
Hear me too vow--if worst befall,
Ne'er from my oath to turn away.
If Bertram checks what once he blest,
Edmond will baffle him and thee;
Yes--thee--fair maid--look not distrest,
And end his ceaseless misery:
Page 221
And rend the promise which he gave,
But--calm in death, sweet, side by side,
We'll rest together--in the grave.
Art thou of life and anguish tired?
Why--Isabella, so am I:
And what's by thee so much desired
Is near--and wish'd by me to try:
Thus both once more but show congenial mind,
While we our anxious fears and hopes disclose;
And thus resolved, and cheer'd by prospect kind,
We go to bliss in life--or calm repose:
Thus, let our fortune turn in either scale,
This world or next--let it be which it may,
We shall' the breath of happiness inhale,
We part no more till everlasting day."
The warder moves from where he sate;
They enter--they are seen no more:
Bertram's dark eye now scans them o'er.
But not for me, that meeting dread
To tell--where bleeding hope lies dead;
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Of anger, in the Castle seen;
Not for her airy flight to stay
To gaze on sight of such dismay,
As there ensues;--she hastens thence
Affrighted--nor reveals its sense;
But yet she weeps that virtue ever
Should droop its head, from hope should sever;
She mourns that in this world vice stands
Unbent, and shamelessly commands;
And that beneath her chilling frown
Virtue sinks, weeping, timid grown,
Or trampled under foot in scorn,
Her altars and her honors torn.
But still, though mourning such the case,
The Muse ev'n in th' awed would trace
Th' omnipotence and wondrous love
Of Him who ruling, reigns above:
Who suffers vice to rise awhile,
Permitting thus the sway of guile,
But to behold how far 'twill go,
And to itself its hell to owe;
That, e'en pursuing its own will,
It may encounter every ill,
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The torments of a troubled mind;
Increased beyond the power of bearing,
And every straining muscle tearing:
While virtue, rising in that hour,
Shines out, resplendently in power;
Its acts of merit there rewarded,
By joys at that high Throne awarded:
Cleansed there from all adhering dross
By the all purifying cross:
Enjoying there the bliss witheld,
Till Heaven's pure fountains were reveal'd:
There, every fleeting pain forget,
Rejoicing ever o'er its lot.
End of Canto the Sixth.
Page [224]
Page [225]
Page [226]
ARGUMENT.
Page [227]
Edmond of Ryedale Vale.
CONCLUSION.
Which winds along the fruitful vale,
Where mourners pace in slow progression,
And hymns arise upon the gale?
What mean those damsels, flowers strewing,
With cypress wreaths, around each head?
Why fall their tears, the earth bedewing?
Alas! they fall for virtue dead.
Those snowy robes--that maiden train,
Clad in the emblematic white,
Who cross with solemn step the plain,
And seem in deepest woe bedight,
Are Ryedale's vassal, village maids,
Whose symyathetic
tears o'erflow,
For those whose gentle, grateful shades
Hover around them as they go.
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Rivals the raven's jetty wing,
With features shrouded from the view
By their large hoods, so softly sing,
Within their breasts conceal a grief,
Well matching with their sable dress,
For those now gone--who gave relief,
And would their woes and cares repress.
That feeble form, whose steps so weak,
Tottering with age, by sorrow shaken,
Whose heart seems so well nigh to break,
And Whose deep sob so loud doth waken
The echo from the neighb'ring dell,
And his heart rending woe doth tell,
That feeble form is Maurice; he
Mourns o'er her corpse he held so dear,
His mistress, whom he long'd to see;
And saw--but 'twas--upon her bier.--
That bier he follows--it doth hold
The gallant Edmond; by his side
Lies her fair form, so still and cold,
His Isabel--the widow'd bride.
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They saw it--fled--resolved to die:
They sought a grove of deepest gloom,
And plunged together in the Rye:
There yielded up the loathed life,
Grown hateful, so o'ercharged with woe:
There ceased their anxious hopes and strife,
There ceased for aye their tears to flow.
Remorse and anguish shook his breast:
Too late he mourn'd his vengeful hate;
Too late he grieved with heart distrest:
He gave them all his wealth could give,
A splendid funereal state;
But ah! he could not bid them live,
And all his sorrow came too late.
Too late for benefit to them;
But for himself--it might not be:
If penitence be Heaven's best gem,
It was of all-sufficiency.
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To wander round their lonely bed;
While nightly were his bitter tears
Upon the flowery covering shed.
Old Maurice felt his bounty flow,
For now he shared the Castle fare;
Where the old Lord now sought to show
Each kindly trait his grief could spare:
And as old Maurice mark'd his eye,
Rayless, and dim by sorrow grown;
Or heard the struggling, bursting sigh,
And his low inward, stifled moan,
His heart forgave those deeds past o'er
Which rent from him his all of joy;
He thought of Bertram's guilt no more,
Though Bertram did his peace destroy.
He pray'd--yes, for the sinner pray'd,
That Heaven would mitigate his pain,
And that, in robes wash'd white array'd,
Bertram might meet the pair again:
And when he saw him steal away,
Thoughtful and serious tow'rd their tomb;
(For oft, full oft, there would he stray,
And pass the hours in joyless gloom;)
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With step as light as age could make,
So light, it caught not Bertram's ear,
Ere his loved station he could take:
Then the old man with ready zeal
Would softly bid his sorrow cease;
Would tell him that repentance real,
Like his, would lead to endless peace;
And that, though late indeed it came,
Yet Heaven in mercy did receive
The dying thief, whose life's last flame
Quiver'd--ere he could well believe:
And that the same unchanging God
Reign'd then, and will for evermore;
Ruling the nations by his nod,
Whose pitying mercy ne'er is o'er.
And, kneeling there, devoutly pray,
Till morn's first blush their souls did cheer,
Or sunk the last faint gleam of day.
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Still breaks some link of the creation's chain,
Obliterates some well remember'd trace,
Or takes some object hence, to grace his train;
Nor left he Maurice here behind to weep;
His loud command call'd both to their cold grave,
And laid them peacefully awhile to sleep.
Forgot were Isabella's woes, and Edmond's care:
And ev'n the Castle shared th' oblivious lot,
For scarce a vestige stands in Ryedale fair:
Sleep quietly in death--rest side by side;
To earth, and clay, all are alike return'd,
Bertram, rind Edmond, and the widow'd bride.
End of the Poem.
Page [233]
NOTES.
Page [234]
Notes
Page [235]
NOTES ON CANTO THE FIRST.
Page 236
Page 26.--"Holme's fruitful lands."
Page 237
Page 28.--"And like all other generous men."
Page 238
Page 30.--"Grandeur pleases women best."
Page [239]
NOTES ON CANTO THE SECOND.
Page 45.--Edith's Song.
Page 240
Page 54.--"They say that lady, clad in white."
Page 241
Page [242]
NOTES ON CANTO THE THIRD.
Page 92.--"Eden of England."
Page 93.--"The dreadful, fearful bay"
--
Page 243
Page 95.--"Lisbon's high rock"
Page 244
Page [245]
NOTES TO CANTO THE FOURTH.
Page 104.--"They poison'd by a drug accurst."
Page 246
Page 247
Page 108.--"The sentries talked with mirthful glee."
Page 112.--"Go tell the French with joy we give."
Page 139.--"The hut was filled with putrid dead."
Page 248
Page 145.--"While gazing heathens."
Page 249
Page 250
Page 147.--" Simply, but artfully, designed."
Page 251
Page 148.--"Whence should one dare a vent'rous leap."
FINIS.
W. Alexander and Son,
Printers, York.
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